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AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP 
WATER 


MOUNT  CHOCORUA   IN  WINTER 


J-V^f^     /O^/^X 


AT  THE  NORTH  OF 
BEARCAMP  WATER 

Chronicles  of  a  Stroller 

in  New  England 
from  July  to  December 

BY 

FRANK  BOLLES 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AKD  NKW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


CerYMORT,  1893,  BY  niANX  BOLLSS 
COFYKIOHT,  I917,  BY  HOUOHTON  MIFFLIN  COMFANT 

ALL   RIGHTS  RBSERVXO 


CONTENTS. 


VAM 

A  Thitndekstorm  in  the  Forkst        ....      1 

The  Heart  of  the  Moustain 10 

A  Lonely  Lake 27 

Following  a  Lost  Trail 43 

A  Night  Alone  on  Chocobua      .....    62 

Bringing  Home  the  Bear 82 

The  Dead  Tree's  Day 96 

Migration 118 

Trapping  Gnomes 132 

Old  Shag 146 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 157 

The  Vintage  of  the  Leaves 168 

Chocorua  in  November 194 

Among  the  Wind-Swept  Lakes       ....      211 

'Lection  Day,  '92 219 

A  Wintry  Wilderness      ......      230 

Climbing  Bear  Mountain  in  the  Snow     .        .        .  243 

In  the  Pauqus  Woods 252 

At  the  Foot  of  Passaconawat 264 

Christmas  at  Sabba  Day  Falls       .        •       ..        .      273 

Down  the  Torrent's  Pathway 285 

Index     .......••.      206 


To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 
Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

Whittier,  Among  the  Hills. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Monirr  Chocobua  in  Winteb  .  .  .  Fnmtiipiece 
Watbr-Liues  in  Chocoboa  Lake       .        .        .        .16 

Chocobua  from  Hbbon  Pond 28 

Canob  Bibchbs  of  thb  Beabcahp  Vallbt  .  .  40 
Thb  Pbak  of  Chocobda  fbom  thb  Hamuono  Tbail  .    64 

"Thb  Cow" 68 

The  Peak  fbom  the  Southeast 72 

The  Peak  fbom  the  Nobth 76 

View  fbom  "the  Cow,"  showing  Moat  Mountaih 
AND  Mount  Pbquawkbt  Beyond  .        .        .80 

The  Dead  Tbee 98 

Mount  Chocobua  and  Chocobua  Lake  in  Sumheb  .  118 
Two  Kinds  of  Qnomes  —  Hbspbbomts  and  Zafus  .  138 
Paugus  fbom  Wonalancet  Road  ....  146 
Chocobua  seen  fbom  the  Side  of  Paugus  .  .  150 
Whiteface  and  Passaconawat  from  Paugus  .  .  154 
Cbowlands,  fobmerlt  the  Old  Dob  Fabm       .        .  158 

Twilight  on  the  Lake 174 

Chocobua  and  Db.  Chadwick's  Pines  .  .  .  184 
The  Peak  of  Chocobua  from  Bald  Mountain  .  206 
Mount  Chocobua  fbom  Whitton  Pond  .  .  .  216 
"  Moat,  like  a  bbeaking  wave  "  .  .  .  .  232 
Mount  Chocobua  and  the  Lake  in  Winter  .  .  250 
Frost-covebed  Spbucb  neab  the  Summit  of  Passa- 
conawat     262 

Moat  Mountain  and  the  Swift  Rivbb     .       .       .  290 


AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP 
WATER. 


A  THUNDERSTORM   IN  THE   FOREST. 

During  nearly  the  whole  of  the  forenoon  of 
July  3,  1892,  a  soft  rain  had  been  falling.  It 
had  begun  in  the  night  to  the  discomfiture  of 
the  whippoorwills,  but  not  to  the  extinguish- 
ment of  their  voices.  It  continued  until  nearly 
noon,  when  the  wind  shifted  from  east  to  west, 
patches  of  blue  sky  appeared,  and  ever  and 
anon  gleams  of  sunlight  fell  upon  the  distant 
forest  across  the  lake,  or  slid  slowly  over  the 
tree-tops  on  the  side  of  Chocorua.  Bird  voices 
grew  stronger  with  the  promise  of  fair  weather. 
Hermit  thrushes,  veeries,  red-eyed  vireos,  and 
Maryland  yellow-throats  sang  four  invitations 
from  as  many  points  of  the  compass,  and  I  said 
Yes  to  the  veeries  and  sought  the  swamp.  A 
New  Hampshire  swamp  is  full  of  attractions  at 
all  seasons.  In  winter  the  great  northern  hares 
make  innumerable  paths  across  its  soft  snow. 


2  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

and  tempt  the  gunner  into  the  chilly  gloom  in 
search  of  a  shot  at  their  phantom  forms.  In 
spring  a  host  of  migrating  warblers  makes 
merry  in  its  tree-tops,  and  the  song  of  the  win- 
ter wren  is  sent  from  heaven  to  give  joy  to  its 
shadows.  Summer  brings  to  it  many  a  shy 
orchid  blooming  among  the  ferns,  and  the  fish- 
erman finds  the  trout  in  its  brook's  placid  pools 
long  after  they  have  ceased  to  bite  well  in  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  stream.  There  are  no 
venomous  serpents  hanging  from  its  moss-grown 
trees,  no  tigers  concealed  in  its  brakes,  and  no 
ague  lingering  in  its  stagnant  pools.  It  is  a 
safe  swamp  and  kind,  yet  none  the  less  a  swamp. 
When  I  reached  its  borders,  after  crossing 
the  meadow,  I  found  wild  roses  in  bloom.  It 
was  of  these,  doubtless,  that  the  veery  was  sing- 
ing so  bewitchingly.  Certainly  nothing  less 
fair  could  have  prompted  such  magic  music. 
Moreover,  the  veery's  nest,  framed  in  nodding 
osmimdas,  is  near  these  beautiful  blossoms, 
with  many  a  pool  and  thicket  between  it  and 
hard  ground.  Passing  into  the  darkness  of  the 
swamp,  I  glanced  back  at  the  sky.  The  north 
and  west  were  filled  with  black  clouds  which 
were  stirred  by  passionate  winds  in  their  midst. 
A  low  growl  of  thunder  came  through  the  heavy 
air.  I  felt  as  though  forbidden  to  enter  the 
mysteries  of  the  swamp,  as  though  warned  that 


A  THUNDERSTORM  IN  THE  FOREST.  3 

danger  lay  within  those  aisles  of  twilight.  The 
veery  ceased  its  song.  No  bird  voice  broke  the 
stillness  of  the  gloom,  and  a  hush  of  expectation 
held  every  leaf  motionless.  The  branches  closed 
behind  me  and  I  stole  on  between  lofty  trees 
with  mossy  trunks,  over  fallen  logs,  and  through 
the  dripping  jungle  of  ferns.  Upland  woods 
are  cleaner,  stronger,  more  symmetrical  than 
swamp  growth,  but  they  have  not  the  effect  of 
tropical  luxuriance  which  the  swamp  forest  pos- 
sesses. The  mosses,  lichens,  ferns  of  many 
species,  climbing  vines,  and  such  large-leaved 
plants  as  the  veratrum  and  skunk  cabbage,  give 
to  the  moist  land  an  air  of  wealth  of  leaf -growth 
which  is  distinctive. 

Two  species  of  orchid  were  conspicuous,  ris- 
ing just  above  the  ferns.  They  were  the  pur- 
ple-fringed, just  coming  into  bloom,  and  the 
white,  which  was  abundant.  Splashing  back 
and  forth  through  the  shallow  pools,  gathering 
the  spikes  of  the  white  orchis,  I  did  not  at  first 
notice  a  distant  sound  which  grew  in  volume 
until  its  sullen  vibration  could  not  be  ignored. 
The  tree-tops  above  me  gave  a  sudden,  vicious 
swish.  Crows  to  the  westward  were  cawinf 
wildly.  The  roar  of  the  storm  became  unmis- 
takable; the  swamp  grew  darker;  a  few  big 
drops  of  rain  fell,  and  then,  as  though  a  train 
were  plunging  down  noisy  rails  upon  the  forest. 


4  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

the  rain  and  wind  leaped  upon  the  trees,  filling 
the  air  with  deafening  sounds,  and  twisting  the 
branches  until  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole 
structure  of  the  woods  was  about  to  collapse  in 
one  vast  ruin.  Then  through  the  tormented 
tree-tops  the  floods  felL  They  were  white  like 
snow,  and  seemed  to  be  a  fallen  part  of  a  white 
sky  which  showed  now  and  then  as  the  forest 
swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  wind's  arms. 
Wet  as  the  swamp  had  been  before,  its  colors 
became  more  vivid  under  this  deluge.  Every 
leaf  grew  greener,  and  each  lichen  gave  out  new 
tints  as  it  drank  in  rain.  The  trunks  of  the 
trees  assumed  more  distinctive  shades;  that  of 
the  ash  became  brown,  of  the  yellow  birch 
almost  like  saffron,  and  of  the  canoe  birch  glis- 
tening white.  The  rain  pelting  into  my  eyes 
bade  me  look  less  at  the  sky  and  more  at  the 
beauties  at  my  feet.  Beauties  there  surely  were 
at  my  feet,  both  of  color  and  form.  There  were 
no  flowers,  but  the  leaves  were  enough  to  satisfy 
both  eye  and  mind,  —  large  leaves  and  small, 
coarse  and  delicate,  strong  and  feeble,  stiff  and 
drooping.  Some  were  long  and  slender,  others 
deeply  cleft,  some  round,  or  smoothly  oval, 
others  shaped  like  arrow-heads.  Some  received 
the  rain  submissively  and  bowed  more  and  more 
before  it,  others  responded  buoyantly  as  each 
drop  struck  them  and  was  tossed  off.     In  some 


A  THUNDERSTORM    IN  THE  FOREST.  5 

the  up-and-down  motion  communicated  by  the 
falling  drop  was  by  the  formation  of  the  leaf- 
stalk transformed  at  once  into  an  odd  vibration 
from  side  to  side,  which  was  like  an  indignant 
shaking  of  the  head. 

Looking  at  the  marvelous  variety  in  the  out- 
lines of  these  gleaming  leaves,  I  suddenly  found 
my  memory  tugging  me  back  to  the  schoolroom 
where  I  was  first  taught  botany.  I  recalled  one 
melancholy  morning  when  my  teacher,  who 
knew  neither  the  derivation  of  botanical  terms 
nor  the  true  beauties  of  botanical  science,  or- 
dered me  to  commit  to  memory  the  list  of  adjec- 
tives applied  to  the  various  shapes  of  leaves. 
The  dose  prejudiced  me  against  botany  for  full 
ten  years  of  my  life,  yet  here  in  this  glistening 
carpet  of  the  swamp  I  saw  "lanceolate,"  "auric- 
ulate,"  "cordate,"  "pinnate,"  written,  not  in 
letters  of  gold,  but  in  something  equally  impres- 
sive to  the  memory,  and  much  more  easy  for  a 
dull  teacher  to  obtain. 

When  one  is  in  the  deep  woods  and  a  flash  of 
lightning  comes,  the  eye  seems  to  see  a  narrow 
horizontal  belt  of  light  play  swiftly  across  the 
foliage  immediately  in  the  line  of  vision.  If  I 
looked  at  the  ground  I  caught  it  there;  if  my 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  low  branches  at  a  dis- 
tance, the  flash  was  there.  Each  flash  was 
promptly   followed   by  the  glorious    mountain 


6   AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

thunder  which  is  so  much  more  impressive  than 
that  in  level  regions.  At  first  heaven  was  rent 
by  the  sound;  then  mountain  after  mountain 
seemed  to  fall  in  noisy  ruin,  the  great  ledges 
tumbling  in  upon  each  other  with  deafening 
shocks ;  then  the  sound  rolled  away  through  the 
sky,  striking  here  and  there  upon  some  cloudy 
promontory  and  giving  out  a  softened  boom  or 
waning  rumble. 

For  full  twenty  minutes  the  trees  writhed  in 
the  wind,  the  rain  fell,  the  leaves  nodded  and 
shivered  under  the  drops,  and  the  rhythmic  roar 
of  the  rain  was  broken  irregularly  by  the  thun- 
der. As  time  passed,  the  shower  slackened,  the 
thunder  followed  the  lightning  at  longer  and 
longer  intervals,  the  wind  seemed  to  take  deeper 
and  less  nervous  breaths,  and  I  listened  to  dis- 
cover what  creature  of  the  swamp  would  first 
raise  its  voice  above  the  subsiding  storm.  A 
mosquito  hovered  before  me,  dodging  the  drops 
in  its  vibratory  flight.  If  it  was  buzzing  I 
could  not  hear  it.  Suddenly  a  single  call  from 
a  blue  jay  came,  in  a  lull  of  the  wind,  from  a 
thicket  of  spruces.  "Yoly-'oly,"  it  said,  and 
was  silent  again.  I  took  a  few  steps  forward, 
and  the  shrill  alarm-note  of  a  chipmunk  sounded 
through  the  gloom.  I  strolled  slowly  through 
the  drenched  and  dripping  woods  fragrant  with 
the  perfume  of  moss  and  mould.     It  was  more 


A  THUNDERSTORM  IN  THE  FOREST.  7 

like  wading  than  walking,  for  every  leaf  had 
a  drop  of  cold  water  ready  to  give  away  to 
whatever  first  touched  it.  A  ray  of  sunlight 
dodged  through  the  lifting  clouds  and  fell  into 
the  swamp.  The  song  of  a  parula  warbler, 
distilled  by  it,  floated  back  skyward.  As  the 
west  grew  golden  and  blue,  bird-songs  sounded 
from  every  quarter.  The  merry  chickadees, 
conversational  vireos,  and  queridous  wood  pe- 
wees  vied  with  each  other  and  the  tree-toads  in 
replacing  the  orchestral  passion  of  the  storm  by 
the  simple  music  of  their  solos. 

Leaving  the  swamp,  I  climbed  the  terrace 
marking  the  ancient  border  of  the  lake,  which 
once  included  the  swamp  in  its  area,  and  passed 
through  a  grove  of  slender  birches  and  poplars. 
Their  stems,  streaming  with  rain,  were  as 
bright  as  polished  marble,  and  their  foliage, 
illuminated  by  the  clear  sunlight,  was  marvel- 
ously  green  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 
Presently  a  vista  opened  northward,  and  at  its 
end  rose  the  dark  peak  of  Chocorua.  After  a 
rain  this  towering  rock  presents  a  noticeably 
different  appearance  from  its  normal  coloring. 
Most  of  its  surface  is  covered  by  lichens,  one 
species  of  which,  when  dry,  resembles  burnt 
paper.  When  rain  falls  upon  these  lichens  they 
alter  their  tints,  and  the  burnt  paper  species  in 
particular  becomes  so  green  that  a  wonderful 


8       AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

change  takes  place  in  the  whole  coloring  of  the 
mountain.  Looked  upon  through  the  birch 
vista,  the  air  being  clear  and  clean,  and  the 
colors  of  the  mountain  uncommonly  bright,  the 
peak  seemed  near  at  hand,  and  even  grander 
than  usual.  There  are  few  things  in  New  Eng- 
land as  truly  picturesque  as  this  horn  of  Cho- 
corua.  Three  thousand  feet  above  its  lake  and 
the  level  of  the  Saco,  the  great  rock  lifts  itself 
with  bold  and  naked  outline  into  the  midst  of 
the  sky.  No  foot  seems  able  to  creep  up  its 
precipitous  slopes  to  its  dizzy  tip,  and  even  the 
sturdy  spruce  can  cling  only  to  the  deep  clefts 
in  its  storm-swept  ledges.  There  was  a  time 
when  the  forest  reached  to  its  crest,  and  when 
the  cold  rocks,  now  naked,  were  covered  deep 
in  soil  and  mosses.  Passaconaway,  close  by, 
shows  how  this  could  have  been,  and  how  Cho- 
corua  must  have  looked  draped  in  evergreens. 
Fire  and  hurricane  destroyed  the  trees;  the 
parched  soil  was  washed  away  from  the  rocks ; 
and  now  the  only  trace  of  the  old  forest  growth 
is  an  occasional  bleached  stump  or  log  hidden 
in  a  cleft  in  the  ledges. 

As  I  strolled  homewards  I  passed  a  spot 
where  the  linnsea  has  covered  several  square 
yards  of  ground  in  a  birch  wood.  The  tiny 
bells  had  rung  out  their  elfin  music  for  the  year. 
By  dint  of  laborious  search  on  hands  and  knees 


A   THUNDERSTORM  IN  THE  FOREST. 


I  found  eight  of  the  flowers,  still  wonderfully- 
fragrant  though  somewhat  faded.  All  the  rest 
of  the  chime  had  fallen.  Not  far  away  a  growth 
of  dogbane  fringed  the  path.  I  picked  some  of 
its  blossoms  and  held  the  two  sets  of  bells  side 
by  side  in  my  hand.  The  comparison  made 
me  feel  sorry  for  the  dogbane. 


THE  HEART  OP  THE   MOUNTAIN. 

Floating  upon  the  clear  waters  of  Choeorua 
Lake  in  the  latter  part  of  a  warm  July  afternoon, 
and  looking  northward,  I  see  the  coolness  of 
night  beginning  to  grow  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountain.  At  first  there  is  but  a  slender  dark 
line  marking  a  deep  ravine,  through  which  a 
brook  flows;  then  the  shadow  widens  until  a 
great  hollow  in  the  mountain's  side  is  filled  with 
shade.  As  the  sun  sinks  the  shadow  reaches 
higher  and  higher  upon  the  wooded  flanks  of 
the  two  spurs  which  hold  the  hollow  between 
them,  imtil  at  last  only  the  vast  rock  of  the 
peak,  resting  upon  its  forest-clad  shoulders,  is 
left  warm  in  the  sun's  rays.  The  point  where 
the  shadow  begins  to  form  is  more  than  a  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake.  From  it, 
reaching  upwards,  two  folds  in  the  forest  dra- 
pery extend  towards  the  foot  of  the  peak.  One 
marks  a  brook  coming  from  the  upper  part  of 
the  right-hand  ridge,  the  other  a  brook  which 
rises  at  the  very  head  of  the  left-hand,  or  west 
ridge.  The  heart  of  the  mountain  is  the  wild 
ravine  where  these  two  streams  mingle  in  per- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  11 

petual  coolness  and  shadow.  No  path  leads  to 
it  and  few  are  the  feet  which  have  found  a  way 
to  its  beauties.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm  in  a 
spot  unknown  to  the  many.  Its  loneliness  en- 
dears it  to  the  mind,  and  gives  its  associations 
a  rarer  flavor.  If  besides  being  unfrequented 
it  is  singularly  beautiful  in  itself,  it  becomes  a 
shrine,  a  place  sacred  to  one's  best  thoughts. 
To  me  the  heart  of  Chocorua  is  a  shrine,  all 
the  more  valued  because  of  the  weariness  of 
flesh  required  to  attain  to  it. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  July  10,  I  set  out 
across  the  pastures  for  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
The  sim  was  hot,  the  air  hazy,  and  not  a  breath 
of  a  breeze  made  the  aspens  quiver.  In  the 
shaded  hollows  something  of  the  night's  chill 
still  lingered,  and  from  them  floated  the  psalm 
of  the  hermit  and  the  gypsy  music  of  the  veery. 
Now  and  then  the  clear,  cool  phoebe-note  of  the 
chickadee  reached  the  ear,  in  contrast  to  the 
trill  of  the  field  sparrows  which  came  from  the 
warmest  parts  of  the  grass-land.  On  the  hill 
to  the  westward  young  crows  with  high-pitched 
voices  clamored  for  food,  and  quarreled  with 
each  other  on  their  shady  perch  in  the  beeches. 

The  flowers  which  bloomed  by  the  path  were 
children  of  heat,  types  of  midsummer.  Buds 
were  large  on  the  goldenrod,  the  St.  John's-wort 
was  in  full  bloom,  and  so,  too,  were  the  diurnal 


12  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

evening-primrose,  the  fleabane  and  dogbane, 
both  worthy  of  sweeter  names;  the  yarrow,  as 
disagreeable  among  flowers  as  a  cynic  is  among 
men ;  the  tall  potentilla,  yellow  clover,  and,  rep- 
resenting the  purple  flowers,  the  brunella.  In 
many  places  thick  beds  of  checkerberry,  decked 
with  brilliant  berries,  were  made  gayer  by  many 
heads  of  the  brunella  growing  through  them. 
The  brunella  is  shaped  somewhat  like  the  con- 
ventional chess  castle,  but  the  castle  is  never 
quite  complete  while  blossoming,  owing  to  the 
lack  of  harmony  among  the  many  little  flowers 
which  unite  to  form  its  head.  Low,  running 
blackberry  dotted  the  banks  with  uninteresting 
white  blossoms,  and  the  stiff  spikes  of  the  spiraea 
were  abundant.  The  daisy,  stigmatized  as  white- 
weed  by  the  indignant  farmers,  still  displayed 
a  few  battered  blossoms,  which  kept  company 
with  heads  of  red  and  of  white  clover.  After 
passing  these  flowers  of  summer,  it  seemed 
strange,  on  descending  into  a  deep  cup-shaped 
basin  where  a  small  pond  fed  by  springs  is 
shaded  by  lofty  oaks  and  birches,  to  find  the 
houstonia  still  in  full  glory,  and  the  dwarf  cor- 
nel blooming  in  dark  and  mossy  nooks.  Ani- 
mate nature  takes  solid  comfort  in  a  hot  day. 
As  I  stole  softly  downward  to  the  shore  of  the 
little  pond,  scores  of  tadpoles  shot  away  from 
the  edge  of  the  water  into  its  green  depths. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  13 

Painted  tortoises,  which  had  been  baking  on 
logs  and  stones  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun, 
dropped  off  unwillingly  into  the  water.  Count- 
less dragonflies  skimmed  the  surface  of  the 
pond,  devouring  smaller  insects,  and  from  a 
dead  limb  overlooking  the  shore,  a  crow,  whose 
plumage  gleamed  with  iridescent  lights,  flapped 
sluggishly  out  of  sight  among  the  trees.  Snakes 
love  to  lie  coiled  in  the  hottest  sunlight;  squir- 
rels stretch  themselves  contentedly  on  horizon- 
tal limbs  and  bask  by  the  hour;  the  fox,  wood- 
chuck,  and  weasel,  and  even  toads  and  newts, 
and  those  so-called  birds  of  darkness  the  barred 
owls,  seek  the  broadest  glare  of  the  midsummer 
sun  and  absorb  comfort  from  its  scorching  rays. 
Taking  tribute  from  the  pond-basin  by  a  deep 
drink  of  ice-cold  water  at  a  spring  in  its  bank, 
I  crossed  another  strip  of  open  pasture  —  where 
the  tinkle-tankle  of  the  cow -bells  sounded  with 
each  bite  the  cows  took  of  the  grass  —  and 
gained  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  There  was  something  akin  to  cool- 
ness in  the  shade  of  the  birches,  poplars,  and 
beeches.  New  flowers  bloomed  here  and  new 
birds  called.  The  dependent  bells  of  the  white 
pyrola,  of  the  small  green  pyrola,  and  of  the 
quaint  pipsissewa  were  found  beneath  the  brakes. 
Here,  too,  was  the  Indian  pipe,  looking  as 
though  formed  from  sheets  of  colorless  wax, 


14  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

and  its  tawny  sister  the  pine  sap  (J/b/ioiropa 
hypopitys).  The  wintergreens  are  strong,  posi- 
tive herbs  with  rich  pungent  flavor,  but  the  pale 
parasitic  plants  are  mere  negations.  They  are 
the  "poor  relations"  among  flowers,  content  to 
draw  their  sustenance  from  others,  while  show- 
ing no  color,  giving  out  no  perfume,  attracting 
no  butterflies,  and  not  even  daring  to  face  the 
blue  sky  until  they  are  dead. 

The  oven-bird  stepped  primly  about  upon  her 
neat  carpet  of  dry  leaves,  the  red-eyed  vireo 
preached  his  perpetual  homily  from  the  tree- 
tops,  a  young  Cooper's  hawk  screamed  shrilly 
in  the  distance,  and  two  inquisitive  red-capped 
sapsuckers  hitched  up  and  down  tree-trunks  near 
me,  while  I  hooted  at  them  after  the  manner 
of  my  barred  owls.  A  grouse  had  been  wallow- 
ing among  the  leaves,  and  had  left  a  round  hol- 
low in  the  dust  with  five  discarded  feathers  and 
the  prints  of  her  feet  to  show  that  she  had  been 
there.  Rana  sylvatica^  the  wood-frog,  betrayed 
himself  by  leaping  over  the  dry  beech  leaves.  I 
followed  him  quickly  as  he  sought  to  elude  me. 
Not  only  were  his  leaps  long,  but  his  skill  in 
doubling  was  something  marvelous.  His  second 
jump  was  generally  at  right  angles  with  the 
first,  and  thrice  he  no  sooner  struck  the  ground 
than  he  turned  and  rebounded  upon  his  tracks, 
80  that  he  passed  over  or   between  my  feet. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  15 

When  he  was  weary  I  caught  him  and,  laying 
him  on  my  knee,  stroked  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
his  back  and  sides.  He  soon  ceased  to  struggle 
and  sat  motionless.  I  laid  him  gently  on  his 
back  and  stroked  him  beneath.  His  throat 
throbbed  and  his  eyes  blinked,  but  he  made  no 
effort  to  escape.  Then  I  restored  him  to  his 
proper  position,  and  extended  one  leg  after  an- 
other. He  was  as  pliable  and  nerveless  as  a 
rubber  frog.  Finally  I  let  him  alone,  wonder- 
ing how  soon  he  would  hop  away ;  but  he  showed 
a  willingness  to  spend  the  day  on  my  knee,  and 
not  until  I  placed  him  on  the  leaves  did  he  seem 
to  awaken  to  life  and  the  advantages  of  free- 
dom. 

A  few  rods  beyond,  a  toad  hopped  from  me 
and  I  followed  him  to  see  what  method  of  escape 
he  would  adopt.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  he  was 
pursued  he  increased  his  speed  and  by  a  series 
of  rapid  hops  reached  a  cavern  under  the  arched 
root  of  a  stump  and  plunged  out  of  sight  in  its 
depths.  Our  toads,  although  of  but  a  single 
species,  vary  in  color  from  black  to  the  paleness 
of  a  dry  beech  leaf.  This  one,  living  in  the 
midst  of  pale  browns  and  yellows,  was  nearly 
as  light  in  tone  as  the  light-footed  Rana  sylva- 
tica. 

The  color  of  the  dry  beech  leaves  as  they  lie 
upon   the  ground  is   sometimes  curiously  be- 


16  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

witched  by  the  spots  of  sunlight  which  dapple 
the  woodland  carpet.  Walking  with  the  sun 
behind  me,  the  sunlight,  especially  where  it  fell 
in  small  round  spots  on  the  beech  leaves  before 
me,  was  of  an  unmistakably  amethystine  hue. 
Several  years  ago  when  I  first  noticed  this,  I 
supposed  it  to  be  due  to  temporary  causes,  but 
I  am  now  convinced  that  the  color  will  always 
be  distinguishable  when  the  conditions  named 
are  favorable. 

The  loveliest  July  flower  in  the  woods  fring- 
ing Chocorua  is  the  mitchella,  named  by  Lin- 
naeus for  Dr.  John  Mitchell  of  Virginia.  In 
their  small  round  leaves  of  dark  glossy  green, 
their  creeping  stems,  their  modest,  delicate- 
tinted  and  highly -perfumed  blossoms,  the  flower 
of  Linnaeus  and  the  flower  of  Mitchell  are  much 
alike.  The  partridge -berry,  as  the  mitchella 
is  commonly  called,  begins  to  bloom  just  as  the 
linnaea  bells  cease  to  swing.  It  is  an  ever- 
green, and  all  through  the  winter  its  bright 
green  leaves  and  red  berries  are  one  of  the 
pledges  of  returning  life  after  snow  and  ice  have 
vanished.  The  flower  is  small  and  faces  the 
sky.  It  is  white  with  a  delicate  rosy  blush 
tinging  its  corolla,  chiefly  on  its  outer  side. 
The  four  pointed  petals  open  wide  and  curve 
back,  exposing  the  whole  interior  of  the  flower 
to  view.     Each  petal  is  covered  on  its  inner 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  17 

surface  with  a  thick  velvety  nap  which  is  the 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  blossom. 
The  perfume  of  this  flower  is  both  powerful  and 
pleasant.  When  freshly  picked  it  suggests  the 
scent  of  the  water-lily,  coupled  with  something 
as  spicy  and  enduring  as  the  heavier  perfume  of 
heliotrope. 

Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes'  walking  over  the 
beech  leaves  brought  me  within  hearing  of  the 
torrent  which  flows  from  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tain. Presently  I  came  to  the  edge  of  its  cut- 
ting and  saw  far  below  me,  through  the  trees 
which  filled  the  gorge,  the  flash  of  its  waters 
and  the  vivid  green  of  mosses.  Walking  up- 
stream along  the  face  of  the  bank,  yet  neither 
climbing  nor  descending,  I  struck  the  level  of 
the  water  at  a  point  not  many  rods  distant.  I 
had  not  gone  down  to  the  brook;  it  had  come 
up  to  me.  The  whole  ravine  was  filled  with  its 
music,  and  following  down  with  its  eager  flow 
was  a  current  of  cold  air.  Above,  in  the  woods, 
quiet  and  heat  had  prevailed.  Here  noise  and 
coolness  ruled  with  absolute  sway.  The  sound 
came  in  waves  as  did  the  water  and  the  breeze, 
but  no  human  senses  could  measure  the  inter- 
vals between  the  beats.  The  sound  seemed 
threefold,  —  a  splash,  a  murmur,  and  a  deeper 
roar.  The  roar  reached  me  even  if  I  pressed 
my  hands  tightly  over  my  ears;  while,  if  I  made 


18  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMF   WATER. 

ear-trumpets  of  my  hands,  the  splashing  thus 
intensified  drowned  the  heavier  sounds.  The 
rhythm  of  the  water  was  most  prettily  shown 
on  a  boulder  faced  with  thick  moss.  When 
the  high  water  came  it  poured  over  the  top  of 
the  rock,  and  the  moss  was  filled  with  white 
shining  drops  coursing  downward  through  it; 
but,  on  the  reaction,  it  instantly  became  vivid 
green.  The  same  pulsation  showed  in  each 
cascade,  which  was  greater  then  less,  greater 
then  less,  in  each  second  of  time.  As  I  bent 
over  a  pool,  taking  now  and  then  a  sip  of  the 
icy  water,  a  small  trout  suddenly  jumped  near 
the  foot  of  the  fall  below.  He  was  intensely 
busy  working  about  in  the  edge  of  the  falling 
water,  where  rising  bubbles  and  whirling  foam 
half  concealed  him.  In  color  he  looked  not  un- 
like a  beech  leaf,  and  he  moved  so  constantly 
that  only  an  attentive  eye  could  distinguish  him 
from  the  waste  of  the  stream  whirled  about  in 
the  eddies.  I  cast  him  some  moss  and  mould, 
and  he  darted  hither  and  thither  in  the  water 
clouded  by  it,  snapping  up  bits  of  food  or  specks 
which  he  mistook  for  food.  His  eagerness  and 
restlessness  seemed  born  of  the  restlessness  of 
the  stream  and  the  keen  temperature  of  the  water 
in  which  he  lived. 

There  was  something  of  the  impressiveness  of 
the  sea  in  this  mountain  brook.     The  sea  rolls 


I 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  19 

its  waves  upon  the  shore  by  night  and  by  day 
all  through  the  endless  years,  and  this  brook 
rolls  down  its  tons  upon  tons  of  water  by  night 
and  by  day  forever.  It  seems  impossible  that 
this  and  all  the  other  streams  which  flow  down 
rocky  mountain-sides  can  be  nourished  simply 
by  the  softly  falling  rain  and  snow. 

Much  of  the  fascination  of  the  sea  is  in  its 
voice,  so  seldom  hushed,  so  often  roused  to  an- 
ger. The  torrent  by  which  I  stood  had  some- 
thing of  the  same  weird  power.  For  the  mo- 
ment, all  outside  those  narrow  wooded  steeps, 
between  which  the  splash,  murmur,  and  roar  of 
the  stream  pervaded  everything  and  overwhelmed 
everything,  all  beyond  that  controlling  sound 
was  forgotten,  barred  out,  lost.  All  within  the 
power  of  the  stream  was  under  a  spell,  cooling, 
soothing,  comforting. 

To  reach  the  heart  of  the  mountain  nearly  a 
mile  of  brook  bed  had  to  be  traveled,  so  I 
climbed  upward  rock  by  rock,  past  falls  and 
pools,  clusters  of  nodding  ferns,  bridges  of  an- 
cient trees  now  hung  with  mosses,  and  sloping 
ledges  faced  with  moss,  down  which  the  water 
rolled  in  glistening  sheets.  At  one  point  the 
brook,  years  ago,  had  cut  through  a  ledge  which 
crossed  its  path  diagonally.  One  great  shoulder 
of  rock  remained,  protruding  from  the  western 
bank  and  hanging  over  the  water,  which  poured 


20  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

into  a  black  cavern  beneath,  making  a  whirlpool 
in  the  darkness.  The  temperature  under  this 
ledge  was  nearly  forty  degrees  lower  than  on 
the  top  of  the  bank  a  few  yards  above.  Stand- 
ing by  the  ledge,  I  counted  nine  distinct  cascades 
varying  from  three  to  six  feet  in  height.  One 
of  them  was  an  ideally  symmetrical  fall,  for  the 
whole  body  of  water,  gathered  between  two 
rocky  faces,  fell  into  a  deep  round  pool  just  at 
its  centre.  Another  fall  showed  clearly  why  the 
water  under  a  cascade  looks  white.  The  water 
poured  into  a  very  broad,  deep  basin  at  its  upper 
corner,  leaving  most  of  the  surface  undisturbed ; 
and  between  the  limpid  falling  water  and  the 
flat  face  of  rock  behind  it  air  was  caught  and 
sucked  downward  by  the  flow.  It  was  carried 
to  the  very  bottom  of  the  pool,  where,  breaking 
into  small  round  bubbles,  it  struggled  to  the  sur- 
face. Strings  and  masses  of  snow-white  bub- 
bles filled  the  area  in  front  and  at  each  side  of 
the  fall,  while  some  were  drawn  some  distance 
down-stream  by  the  escaping  water.  These 
bubbles,  when  under  water,  produced  the  white- 
ness of  the  pool,  and,  on  reaching  the  surface, 
burst  and  made  a  large  part  of  its  foam  and 
spray.  In  this  pool,  as  in  many  others,  small 
trout  hovered  about  the  edge  of  the  rising  bub- 
bles, seizing  upon  everything  which  looked  like 
food.     They  rose  with  charming  promptness  to 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  21 

anything  resembling  a  fly  which  I  tossed  upon 
the  surface  of  the  foam. 

As  I  neared  the  heart  of  the  moimtain  I  saw, 
towering  above  twin  cascades  which  fell  into  a 
single  pool  at  its  feet,  the  rough  likeness  of  a 
sphinx.  It  was  a  huge  boulder,  dividing  the 
torrent  by  its  lichen-covered  mass,  and  lifting 
its  frost-hewn  face  towards  the  narrow  strip  of 
sky  left  between  the  trees  overarching  the  ravine. 

Close  above  the  sphinx  a  spring  in  the  eastern 
bank  filled  a  hollow  in  the  hill  with  cold,  fem- 
deeked  mud.  A  flower  I  never  shoidd  have 
sought  in  this  lofty  nook  had  taken  possession 
of  the  spot  and  raised  hundreds  of  its  white 
spikes  towards  the  sky.  It  was  a  white  orchis, 
Hahenaria  dilatata.  In  a  space  six  feet  by 
ten,  I  counted  seventy-five  of  its  plants,  each  in 
full  bloom.  On  the  edges  of  this  miniature 
swamp  the  leaves  of  the  mayflower  mingled  with 
those  of  the  linnsea.  The  blossoms  of  the  may- 
flowers  were  dry  and  brown ;  those  of  the  lin- 
naea,  with  one  fragrant  exception,  had  fallen. 
Close  by,  the  open-eyed  flowers  of  the  oxalis 
smiled  from  their  beds  of  clover-shaped  leaves. 

A  few  rods  farther  up  the  stream,  the  land 
grew  steeper  and  the  walls  of  the  ravine  drew 
more  closely  together.  Taller  trees  presided 
over  the  torrent,  and  the  water  struggled  down- 
ward between  larger  boulders.     A  stream,  turn- 


22  AT  TEE  NORTE  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

bling  down  its  narrow  bed,  came  from  the  high 
eastern  ledges  and  met  that  which  poured  from 
the  heights  on  the  west.  Here,  in  the  perpetual 
music  of  falling  drops,  where  one  or  another  of 
the  great  walls  of  the  gorge  always  casts  a  deep 
shadow  upon  the  ferns,  is  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  birthplace  of  the  twilight. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  I  followed  the  western 
stream  to  its  source,  where,  in  a  dark  hollow  at 
the  head  of  the  west  ridge,  hidden  wholly  from 
view  by  the  forest,  lies  a  small  mountain  lake. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  more  truthful  to  call  it  a 
large  pool,  fed  as  it  is  mainly  by  melting  snow 
or  the  streams  of  rain-water  poured  into  it  from 
the  crags  of  Chocorua.  Beneath  its  shallow 
water  the  maroon  and  dark  green  sphagnum 
formed  a  submerged  carpet  of  intense  colors. 
The  growing  tops  of  the  moss,  star-shaped  and 
erect,  glowed  with  the  tint  of  life.  The  borders 
of  the  pool  were  fringed  with  dense  growths 
of  yellow -green  Osmunda  regalis  which  were 
swayed  by  a  sweet  wind.  Through  the  soft  foli- 
age of  the  deciduous  trees  surrounding  the  pool, 
lance-shaped  spruces  and  balsams  pierced  a  way 
for  themselves  towards  the  sky.  No  fish  were 
visible  in  the  pool,  and  its  only  living  tenants 
seemed  to  be  some  tadpoles  about  the  size  of 
squash-seeds.  Now  that  the  noises  of  the  brook 
no  longer  overwhelmed  every  other  sound,  the 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  23 

gongs  of  birds  could  be  heard.  Red-eyed  and 
solitary  vireos,  oven  -  birds,  a  black-throated 
blue  warbler,  a  hermit  thrush,  and  another 
thrush  which  was  neither  hermit  nor  veery, 
were  singing  either  in  the  woods  close  by  or 
among  the  small  spruces  which  crowned  the 
adjoining  ledges.  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
nearest  ledge  in  search  of  the  thrush,  and 
gained  not  only  the  full  benefit  of  his  song,  but 
a  view  of  many  a  mile  of  the  fair  lake  country, 
the  Bearcamp  valley,  and  the  rugged  peaks  of 
the  Sandwich  range.  The  air  was  full  of  quiv- 
ering heat  and  hazy  midsummer  softness.  Over 
the  shoulder  of  the  Ossipees,  south  of  Bearcamp 
Water,  sparkled  Squam  Lake  and  Winnepe- 
saukee.  The  hayfields  of  Sandwich  were  bak- 
ing under  the  sun's  fierce  heat.  North  of  them 
began  the  mountains,  —  Black  Mountain  in  the 
edge  of  Campton,  Whiteface,  Passaconaway, 
and,  nearer  at  hand,  Paugus,  towards  which  aU 
the  western  ridges  of  Chocorua  were  tending. 
The  sun  being  over  and  beyond  these  wooded 
moimtains,  they  were  very  dark,  lacking  in  de- 
tail, but  clearly  outlined  against  one  another. 
Northward  and  just  above  me  the  cliffs  of  the 
Chocorua  horn  hung  in  the  sky.  The  lichens 
on  the  crag  were  dry  and  very  black.  Tower- 
ing into  the  air,  ledge  upon  ledge,  and  cliff  over 
cliff,  the  peak  was  like  a  huge  citadel  defying 


24  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

attack.  I  had  climbed  upon  the  shoulders  of 
the  mountain,  but  its  proud  head,  held  high, 
was  still  out  of  reach. 

The  thrush  was  one  which  is  common  upon 
the  upper  slopes  of  the  mountains,  wholly  re- 
placing the  veery  there  and  probably  outnum- 
bering the  hermit.*  Its  song,  while  pleasing,  is 
not  as  musically  beautiful  as  that  of  the  hermit, 
nor  yet  as  unique  as  the  veery's.  The  hermit 
has  three  distinct  phrases,  the  veery  one,  and 
Swainson's  several  which  are  not  distinct,  but 
rather  jumbling  reproductions  of  the  same  notes. 
If  this  bird  had  learned  his  song  for  himself,  I 
should  surmise  that  he  had  listened  closely  to  a 
veery  and  a  thrasher,  and  then  tried  to  model  a 
combination  of  their  notes  upon  the  lines  of  the 
hermit's  exquisite  song.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
heat  and  the  glare  of  light  on  the  ledges,  or 
perhaps  it  was  a  certain  dullness  in  the  Swain- 
son's song,  at  all  events  I  wearied  of  it  and 
sought  a  higher  ledge  beyond  the  pool. 

On  this  higher  ledge,  lambkill  (^Kalmia  an- 
gustifolid)  was  blooming  in  great  abundance. 
It  is  a  handsome  flower,  and  it  goes  a  little  way 
to  console  us  for  not  having  mountain  laurel. 
Between  two  great  patches  of  lambkill  and 
flowering  diervilla  was  a  level  strip  of  gravel. 
It  bore  printed  on  its  face  an  interesting  his- 
tory.    Beginning   near  the   edge  of  a  thicket 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN.  25 

and  extending  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  a 
view  of  miles  of  surrounding  country  could  be 
obtained,  was  a  line  of  sharp  hoof-marks.  A 
deer  had  walked  slowly  to  the  verge  of  the 
ledge,  presumably  to  survey  the  landscape. 
The  track  had  been  made  since  the  rain  of  the 
day  before,  and,  for  all  that  I  could  see,  might 
have  been  made  within  an  hour.  While  study- 
ing it  I  heard  an  unfamiliar  bird-song  remind- 
ing me  slightly  of  the  Maryland  yellow-throat's. 
The  bird  was  in  the  thicket.  I  crept  towards 
him,  but  he  retreated,  singing  at  intervals. 
After  following  for  some  time,  I  tried  working 
on  his  sympathies,  and  "squeaked"  like  a  bird 
in  distress.  Instantly  a  flash  of  vivid  yellow 
came  through  the  trees  and  a  magnificent  male 
magnolia  or  black  and  yellow  warbler  appeared 
in  search  of  the  supposed  sufferer.  His  mate 
soon  joined  him,  as  did  a  junco  and  two  white- 
throated  sparrows.  The  coloring  of  the  mag- 
nolias is  certainly  gay.  It  includes  blue-gray 
on  the  head,  black  on  the  back,  canary -yellow 
beneath  and  on  the  rump,  with  white  and  dark 
bars,  stripes,  and  spots  enough  on  various  parts 
of  his  body  to  make  him  as  variegated  as  a  har- 
lequin. 

While  the  magnolia  warblers  are  members  of 
the  Canadian  fauna,  and  seldom  seen  in  the 
breeding  season  south  of  the  White  Mountains, 


26  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

the  bird  which  I  next  heard  singing  was  even 
more  interesting.  It  was  a  male  blackpoll 
warbler,  perched  upon  the  highest  plume  of  a 
spruce  and  pouring  out  his  immusieal  ze-ze-te- 
ze-ze  with  all  a  lover's  earnestness.  He  clearly 
considered  two  thousand  feet  rise  on  Chocorua 
equivalent  to  several  hundred  miles'  flight 
towards  Labrador.  In  this  the  flowers  sus- 
tained him,  for  growing  near  by  was  the  charm- 
ing Arenarla  grcenlandica,  with  its  cluster  of 
delicate  white  flowers  springing  from  the  sand, 
and  the  Potentilla  tridentata  blooming  freely. 
Apparently  dissenting  from  this  boreal  majority 
was  a  bunch  of  goldenrod  in  full  bloom.  It 
was  a  moimtain  species  which  comes  into  flower 
a  fortnight  or  more  earlier  than  its  lowland  rel- 
atives. 

My  homeward  path  followed  the  crest  of  the 
great  eastern  ridge  of  Chocorua  as  it  descends 
towards  the  basin  of  Chocorua  ponds.  The 
ridge  is  narrow  and  mainly  open,  save  for  a  few 
stunted  spruces.  In  every  direction  far-reach- 
ing and  beautiful  views  charmed  me  and 
tempted  me  to  linger.  From  the  last  of  the 
open  ledges,  the  top  of  what  is  called  Bald 
Mountain,  I  saw  the  sun  set  just  behind  the 
peak.  Then  with  quickened  pace  I  entered  the 
forest  and  ran  through  the  gathering  gloom 
dovm  the  rough  path  to  the  pastures  a  mile  be- 
low. 


A  LONELY   LAKE. 

Six  witheringly  hot  days  had  been  followed 
by  one  so  cool  and  clear,  so  full  of  rushing 
Arctic  air,  that  all  nature  sparkled  as  on  an 
autumn  morning.  About  sunset  on  the  evening 
of  this  cool  day, — July  17, — the  pale  blue 
sky  in  the  north  was  suddenly  barred  by  ascend- 
ing rays  of  quivering  white  light.  Chocorua, 
lying  dark  and  still  against  the  cold  sky,  seemed 
to  be  the  centre  of  the  aurora.  As  it  grew 
dark  I  watched  to  see  the  heavens  glow  with  the 
electric  flame,  but  hour  after  hour  passed  with 
only  an  occasional  gleam  of  light.  Shortly  be- 
fore sunrise,  however,  the  promised  illumination 
came.  I  awoke  to  find  my  chamber  as  bright 
as  though  day  had  come,  for  from  the  southeast 
moonlight  streamed  across  the  floor,  while  from 
the  north  the  glow  of  the  aurora  flooded  the 
room.  An  immense  arch  of  throbbing  white 
light  crowned  the  northern  sky,  and  within  it  a 
smaller  coronet  rested  above  the  inky  blackness 
of  Chocorua.  Between  the  two  hung  the  Great 
Dipper,  and  from  one  to  the  other  occasional 
pulsating  rays  passed.     The  eastern  end  of  the 


28  AT  TEE  NORTE  OF  BEARCAMF  WATER. 

upper  and  larger  belt  of  light  made  a  sharp 
bend  inward  a  few  degrees  above  the  horizon, 
and  to  a  less  defined  extent  the  smaller  arch 
was  similarly  shaped.  The  effect  of  this  curve 
at  the  base  of  the  two  bows  was  very  remarka- 
ble, for  it  destroyed  the  image  of  an  arch  and 
created  the  impression  that  one  was  looking  into 
the  inner  curve  of  a  ring  which  surrounded  the 
earth,  just  as  the  rings  of  Saturn  encircle  that 
planet.  Gradually  the  lower  ring  faded,  the 
upper  one  settled  down  closer  and  closer  to 
Chocorua;  masses  of  electric  energy  seemed  to 
dart  across  the  eastern  sky,  where  Sirius  and 
the  fair  Pleiades  gleamed,  to  the  moon  and 
Mars  sailing  serenely  on  their  westward  way. 
Behind  Pequawket  the  lowest  line  of  sky  grew 
white.  The  dawn  was  coming,  and,  as  though 
to  avoid  it,  the  hurrying  beams  and  flashing 
waves  of  aurora  moved  faster  and  faster  until  in 
their  dimness  they  cordd  scarce  be  seen.  Snowy 
Aiists  raised  their  phantom  forms  from  the  lake 
and  floated  eastward  to  meet  the  sim.  A  whip- 
poorwill  sang  his  last  song  to  the  night,  and  as 
the  glow  of  day  grew  more  real  a  hermit  thrush 
told  in  its  heartfelt  music  the  joy  of  life  at  the 
birth  of  a  new  period  of  labor. 

A  scrap  of  mist  which  trailed  over  the  forest 
Just  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  ridges  of  Chocorua 
was  the  spirit  of  a  lonely  lake  rising  to  do  horn- 


CHOCORUA  FROM  HERON  POND 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  29 

age  to  the  day-star.  This  lake  is  a  rendezvous 
for  all  that  is  wildest  and  freest  in  the  animal 
life  of  the  region.  It  is  sufficient  unto  itself, 
and  yields  no  tribute  save  to  its  lord  the  sun. 
Around  it,  high  glacial  walls  stand,  crowned 
with  ancient  oaks  and  graceful  birches.  No 
stream  flows  from  it,  or  into  it,  unless  threads 
of  ice-cold  water  coming  from  springs  in  its 
banks  are  called  streams.  Its  waters  are  deep, 
the  fisherman,  so  they  say,  finding  places  in  its 
centre  where  long  lines  reach  no  bottom.  Seen 
from  the  peak  of  Chocorua,  this  lake,  even  in 
November,  is  as  green  as  an  emerald,  and  when 
one  floats  upon  its  surface  and  gazes  far  down 
into  its  depths,  rich  green  water-weeds  are  seen 
stretching  their  tremulous  fingers  towards  him, 
and  crowding  each  other  for  standing-room  on 
its  muddy  floor. 

Many  are  the  days  I  have  spent  at  this  lonely 
lake  learning  the  secrets  of  its  tenants,  and  this 
morning,  soon  after  the  auroral  beauties  had 
faded  from  the  sky,  I  came  to  it  while  the  dew 
sparkled  on  the  ferns.  Drifting  with  the  wind 
on  the  water,  or  stretched  on  the  soft  mosses 
which  flourish  under  the  birches,  I  stayed  by 
the  lake  until  evening.  If  an  observer  keeps 
still,  it  matters  little  whether  he  sits  hidden 
under  the  spreading  branches  of  a  great  oak  on 
the  shore,  or  lies  upon  a  raft  anchored  in  the 


30  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BE  ABC  AMP  WATER. 

lake,  he  is  sure  to  see  something  interesting  in 
either  case.  One  morning,  as  I  leaned  against 
the  oak's  wide  trunk,  watching  a  bittern  on  the 
opposite  shore,  I  noticed  that  the  bird  showed 
signs  of  uneasiness,  paying  more  heed  to  the 
bushes  than  to  its  fishing.  Suddenly  the  cause 
of  its  unrest  became  apparent.  The  bushes 
just  behind  it  were  slowly  poked  apart  and  the 
head  of  a  fox  appeared.  With  a  guttural  note 
of  alarm  the  bittern  rose  and  flew  across  the 
lake,  above  the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank,  and 
out  of  sight.  Reynard,  graceful  and  alert, 
stood  upon  the  mossy  shore  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing after  his  lost  opportunity;  then  turned 
abruptly  and  vanished  in  the  underbrush.  An- 
other morning,  while  I  was  under  the  same 
tree,  a  big  blue  heron  came  softly  stepping 
along  the  beach  towards  me.  He  was  a  comical 
figure,  with  his  attenuated  legs,  wasted  to  the 
semblance  of  rushes ;  his  extensible  neck,  exjjres- 
sive  of  centuries  of  hungry  reaching  after  the 
partly  attainable ;  and  his  long  beak  as  cruel  as 
a  pair  of  shears.  His  dull  eyes  told  of  terror 
when  he  saw  me.  For  a  moment  I  felt  their 
worried  glare,  and  then  the  quaint  machinery 
of  the  bird  was  put  in  motion  and  he  flapped 
off  out  of  sight. 

One  still,  cloudy  afternoon  in  August,  I  lay 
upon  a  raft  of  weather-beaten  logs  and  mossy 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  3t 

boards,  watching  the  fitful  sky  and  listening  to 
an  occasional  bird-note,  when  suddenly  my  eyes 
were  drawn  to  the  north  shore  of  the  lake  by 
seeing  a  branch  of  green  leaves  swimming,  ap- 
parently unaided,  along  the  surface  of  the 
water.  After  progressing  for  forty  or  fifty  feet 
it  disappeared  under  the  ripples.  A  mystery, 
truly.  A  few  moments  later  a  muskrat's  head 
rose  above  the  water,  and  the  creature  swam 
back  to  the  point  from  which  the  leaves  had 
started.  Leaving  the  lake  cautiously,  the  rat 
crawled  clumsily  up  the  bank  into  the  bushes. 
After  a  minute  or  two  it  came  waddling  out 
bearing  a  second  branch  of  ash,  and  this,  too, 
floated  along  the  placid  surface  of  the  lake  until 
abruptly  drawn  down  into  the  rat's  burrow  in 
the  submerged  bank.  Later  in  the  afternoon  I 
noticed  a  V-shaped  ripple  plowing  across  the 
lake  from  the  southern  shore.  On  it  came,  a 
small,  dark  object  being  at  its  point,  parting 
the  water  steadily.  As  it  drew  near  the  raft  I 
saw  that  the  dark  spot  was  the  head  of  another 
muskrat,  whose  course  was  shaped  straight  for 
the  hole  into  which  his  mate  had  been  carrying 
ash  branches.  He  passed  quite  close  to  me 
without  alarm,  and  a  minute  or  two  later  the 
ripple  ceased  as  the  rat  sank  below  the  water  a 
few  yards  from  the  mouth  of  the  hole. 

The  same  still,  cloudy  day,  a  brownish  black 


32  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

creature  appeared  on  the  southern  shore  of  the 
lake  and  ambled  along  the  edge  of  the  water. 
At  first  glance  it  looked  like  a  black  kitten,  but 
a  plainer  view  showed  it  to  be  twice  the  length 
of  a  kitten,  although  no  larger  round  than  a 
man's  wrist.  Its  progress  at  times  was  almost 
snake-like,  so  undulatory  was  it.  Its  head  and 
fore-quarters  would  be  gliding  down  one  side  of 
a  log  before  its  black  tail  and  hind  feet  had 
quite  reached  the  log  on  the  other  side.  The 
edge  of  the  pond  was  lined  with  tadpoles  cling- 
ing to  logs  and  stones,  with  their  heads  towards 
the  shore.  The  black  creature  seemed  to  be 
attempting  to  catch  these  fish -like  batrachians, 
for  every  few  yards  he  pounced  at  something, 
and,  if  successful,  cantered  out  of  sight,  into 
the  weeds  and  bushes,  where  he  remained  un- 
til, so  I  surmised,  he  had  eaten  his  adolescent 
frog.  Although  the  raft  was  only  about  a  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  western  shore  of  the  pond, 
the  mink  kept  his  course  past  me,  apparently 
without  a  thought  of  anything  beyond  the  wary 
polywogs.  He  went  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the 
muskrat  hole  and  then  turned  and  retraced  his 
cantering  until  I  lost  sight  of  him  on  the  farther 
southern  shore.  Several  times,  in  his  eagerness 
to  catch  a  tadpole,  he  plunged  wholly  beneath 
the  water  and  pursued  his  prey  as  though  he 
had  been  a  pickerel. 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  33 

At  the  northeastern  corner  of  the  lake  there 
is  a  grove  of  oaks,  the  largest  of  which  doubt- 
less stood  there  before  this  part  of  New  England 
was  settled  by  white  men.  Squirrels  hold  this 
grove  as  frisky  tenants-in-common  with  wood- 
chucks  and  raccoons;  a  family  of  porcupines 
having  a  right  of  way  across  it  by  virtue  of  un- 
opposed use  running  back  till  the  memory  of 
rodents  knoweth  nothing  to  the  contrary.  I 
have  never  been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  'coons  in 
the  grove,  although  some  of  my  household  have 
found  them,  but  I  have  seen  their  footprints  in 
the  April  snow.  They  are  strange  footprints, 
which  one  can  never  mistake  for  any  other.  If 
the  dearest,  plumpest  baby  in  New  England 
patted  the  soft  snow  with  its  dimpled  hands,  it 
could  not  make  daintier  images  of  its  little 
palms  than  this  wild  creature  of  the  forest 
makes  with  its  feet,  as  it  hurries  over  the  new- 
fallen  snow.  The  most  conspicuous  squirrels 
by  the  pond  are  the  great  bushy-tailed  grays ; 
the  most  retiring  are  the  refined  little  flying- 
squirrels,  which  live  in  a  deserted  woodpecker's 
hole  in  a  dead  tree.  The  grays  climb  after 
acorns  to  the  highest  limbs  and  branchlets  of 
the  oaks,  frequently  breaking  oif  leafy  twigs, 
and  dropping  acorns  to  the  ground.  Below, 
watching  for  and  improving  their  opportunities, 
are  striped  chipmunks,  which  gather  up  a  por- 


34  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

tion  of  the  harvest  and  conceal  it  in  their  bur- 
rows. Chickaree,  too,  is  there,  nervous,  petu- 
lant, and  noisy,  but  he  is  more  likely  to  be 
found  in  the  pines,  or  near  the  butternuts.  In 
winter,  especially,  the  pine  woods  are  alive  with 
red  squirrels.  I  recall  seeing  twenty  red  squir- 
rels in  a  single  midwinter  day.  Chipmunks 
may  be  seen  late  in  December,  and  by  the  end 
of  February,  if  it  is  warm,  and  the  mouths  of 
their  holes  are  not  covered  by  snow,  they  are 
ready  to  take  a  peep  at  the  sky.  They  store 
enormous  quantities  of  food,  and  the  heat  and 
moisture  of  their  nests  is  such  that  they  can  eat 
corn  sprouts  and  acorn  shoots  in  midwinter 
while  poor  Chickaree  is  scratching  about  in  the 
cold  snow  for  an  unnibbled  pine  cone.  The 
gray  squirrels  are  fond  of  the  high-bush  blue- 
berries, which  grow  in  abundance  on  the  mar- 
gins of  the  pond.  They  come  down  from  the 
oaks  to  the  great  fallen  trees  lying  half  on  the 
shore  and  half  in  the  lake,  and  bask  in  the  sun- 
light, drink  of  the  water,  and  run  up  and  down 
the  logs  with  tails  arched  and  waving  behind 
them. 

The  home  of  the  porcupines  is  west  of  the 
pond  on  the  slope  of  a  heavily  wooded  hill,  the 
sides  of  which  are  encumbered  by  very  large 
boulders.  Beneath  one  of  the  largest  of  these 
boulders  and  overhung  by  one  almost  as  large, 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  36 

which  rests  against  its  mate,  is  the  porcupines' 
den.  By  lying  down  between  the  rocks  and 
crawling  forward  into  the  mouth  of  the  den  I 
can  see  several  feet  into  its  black  interior.  A 
passage  large  enough  for  a  hound  to  squeeze 
through  leads  out  of  sight  below  the  rocks. 
Quills  and  hairs  line  the  ground,  and  other 
marks  of  long  occupancy  are  abundant.  I  have 
been  told  by  farmers  that  they  had  killed  old 
"  hedgehogs "  weighing  nearly  fifty  pounds. 
Tales  are  told  of  white  porcupines,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  shake  the  hunter's  belief  in  the 
brutes'  power  to  shoot  their  quills  at  their 
enemies. 

The  skunk  is  a  well-known  character  at  the 
pond,  but  I  have  not  sought  her  society,  and  it 
is  an  open  question  whether  she  lives  in  a  de- 
serted woodchuck  hole  or  among  the  boulders 
on  the  porcupine's  hill. 

So  far  as  I  know,  Bruin  never  comes  to  my 
pond.  He  lives  within  sight  of  it  among  the 
oaks  and  blueberry  patches  on  the  ledges  of 
Chocorua,  and  if  his  small  eyes  ever  scan  the 
landscape  from  the  cliffs  above  the  heart  of  the 
mountain,  he  can  see  its  emerald  water  gleam- 
ing in  the  sunlight.  I  am  more  than  willing 
not  to  find  his  huge  footprints  on  my  mosses. 
Deer,  on  the  other  hand,  go  freely  and  fre- 
quently to  the  pond,  and  in  May  and  June 
come  to  the  garden  patch  below  my  cottage. 


36  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

"Wings  even  more  than  feet  bring  wild  life  to 
the  lonely  lake.  The  first  time  that  I  ever  saw 
the  waters  of  the  pond  flashing  and  rippling  in 
the  sunlight,  wings  awoke  the  echoes  of  the 
basin  as  a  flock  of  black  ducks  rose  at  my  com- 
ing and  vanished  behind  the  oaks.  Wood  ducks 
nested  for  years  in  a  hollow  oak  by  the  shore. 
One  bright  October  morning  a  black  tern,  borne 
by  storm  or  waywardness  of  wing,  came  to  the 
lake  witli  five  black  ducks.  That  tiny  mirror 
in  the  deep  woods  seemed  to  please  the  weary 
sea-bird,  for  it  rested  there  many  hours,  and 
even  when  alarmed  circled  for  a  while  in  the 
sky  and  then  returned  to  the  spot  where  Choco- 
rua's  horn  was  reflected  in  the  mountain  pool. 
The  great  numbers  of  tadpoles  and  frogs  always 
to  be  found  in  the  lake  attract  not  only  the 
great  blue  heron  and  the  bitterns,  but  also  the 
night  herons,  which  sometimes  come  in  flocks  of 
eight  or  ten  to  fish  in  the  lakes  of  this  region. 
Early  in  August  of  each  year  a  kingfisher  ap- 
pears at  the  pond  and  passes  much  of  his  time 
by  it.  There  are  certain  dry  branches  upon 
which  he  perches  one  after  another  in  order,  as 
he  circles  round  the  pond  uttering  his  harsh 
rattling  cry.  I  suspect  that  fishing  of  the  same 
kind  goes  on  after  dark,  for  the  lake  is  a  favor- 
ite resort  of  the  barred  owls,  whose  trumpet 
tones    are    heard  nightly  at    certain   seasons. 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  37 

More  than  once  I  have  seen  them  on  branches 
above  the  water,  or  floating  on  noiseless  wing 
from  shore  to  shore.  The  fondness  of  this  owl 
for  frogs  and  fish  is  remarkable,  particularly 
for  hornpout,  which  abound  in  this  lake.  I  have 
known  my  captive  owls  to  strike  a  fish  with  their 
talons  when  it  was  several  inches  below  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  in  a  tank. 

Many  a  time  as  I  have  been  hidden  by  shel- 
tering boughs,  scanning  the  lake  and  its  shores 
for  signs  of  life,  I  have  seen  a  dark  shadow 
glide  across  the  water,  and  then  a  broad-winged 
bird  alight  noiselessly  on  a  dead  limb  from 
which  the  whole  surface  of  the  lake  could 
be  seen.  Its  face  would  express  cruelty  and 
hunger,  apprehension  and  something  akin  to 
remorse.  The  eyes  of  a  hawk  are  full  of  mean- 
ing ;  they  tell  the  story  of  guilt  and  of  the  eter- 
nal misery  of  spirit  which  follows  guilt.  The 
hawks  which  come  to  my  pond  are  of  several 
species,  including  the  slow  buteos,  which  one 
sees  circling  by  the  hour  in  the  high  skies;  the 
dangerous  accipiters,  so  ruthless  in  their  raids 
upon  poultry  and  small  birds;  and  the  low- 
flying,  graceful,  mouse -hunting  marsh  hawk, 
readily  to  be  known  by  its  white  rump.  At 
evening  the  whippoorwills  and  their  cousins  the 
night-hawks  frequent  the  lake.  Just  at  twilight 
I  have  heard  six  whippoorwills  at  once  singing 


38     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

their  strange  song  on  the  edge  of  the  water. 
Perhaps  they  come  there  to  bathe;  at  all  events 
they  sing  only  for  a  moment,  after  which  only 
an  occasional  cluck  or  "  whip  "  betrays  their 
presence.  Late  in  August  the  night-hawks  fly 
in  large  companies,  and  as  many  as  twenty -five 
have  sometimes  wheeled  into  the  lake's  basin 
and  circled  over  it,  to  the  consternation  of  the 
small  frogs. 

Behind  the  great  oaks,  in  which  scarlet  tana- 
gers  breed,  there  is  a  level  overgrown  with  gray 
birches.  Nearly  a  dozen  of  these  trees  have 
been  converted  into  drinking  fountains  by  a 
family  of  sap-sucking  woodpeckers,  and  through 
the  summer  days,  as  long  as  the  sap  is  sweet  and 
abundant,  the  indolent  birds  cling  to  the  trunk, 
sip  the  tree's  lifeblood  as  it  drains  away,  and 
catch  a  few  of  the  many  insects  which  hover 
around  the  moist  bark.  The  product  of  the 
trees  is  shared  with  several  humming-birds,  and 
the  insects  attract  small  flycatchers  and  war- 
blers. 

To  tell  of  all  the  birds  which  either  live  near 
the  lake  or  come  to  it  more  or  less  regularly, 
would  be  to  recount  the  doings  of  most  of  the 
six-score  species  which  are  found  in  the  Choco- 
rua  country.  The  lake  is  not  only  a  favorite 
place  of  resort  for  resident  birds,  but  it  is  a 
section    of  one    of   those    dimly  recognizable 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  39 

"lines"  of  migration  along  which  bands  of 
spring  and  autumn  birds  seem  by  instinct  to 
take  their  way  year  by  year.  On  this  "line," 
above  the  lake  shore,  I  met  my  first  and  only 
Philadelphia  vireo,  one  of  the  rarest  of  our 
migrants. 

The  vegetation  of  the  lake  shore  has  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  its  power  to  attract  animal  and 
bird  life.  I  know  of  some  woods  which  are  for- 
ever silent  to  bird  voices,  and  in  which  the  snows 
of  winter  seem  imtrodden  by  any  foot  save  mine. 
The  lake  was  once  in  the  heart  of  a  white  pine 
forest.  Scores  of  huge  stumps  show  where  the 
giant  trees  lived  until  a  tornado  overturned 
them.  Now  the  canoe  birch  is  the  prevailing 
tree,  and  few  creations  of  the  New  England  soil 
can  rival  it  in  grace,  beauty,  and  useful  quali- 
ties. The  forest's  carpet  of  gray  and  green 
mosses,  wintergreen,  checkerberry,  linnaea, 
dwarf  cornel,  asters  and  goldenrod,  ferns  and 
brakes,  is  strangely  lacking  in  one  flower  gen- 
erally common  to  the  region.  I  have  searched 
for  half  a  mile  in  every  direction  from  the  pond 
and  failed  to  find  more  than  one  root  of  the  may- 
flower.  That  root,  with  its  three  or  four  clusters 
of  flowers,  is  well  hidden  in  a  deeply  shaded  and 
poorly  watered  spot,  where  its  future  is  threat- 
ened by  a  lack  of  all  the  elements  which  make 
plant  life  prosperous.     Near  this  solitary  root 


40  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

of  mayflower  there  grows  an  eccentric  blueberry 
bush,  which  bears  pale  pink  and  white  berries 
very  sweet  to  the  taste,  but  which  never  grow 
blue.  Here,  too,  is  to  be  found  the  shy  little 
snowberry,  whose  fruit  has  the  art  of  hiding 
itself  beneath  glossy  round  leaves,  so  that  close 
search  is  needed  to  gather  it.  Along  the  banks 
of  the  lake  high-bush  blueberries  of  fabulous 
size  tempt  the  stroller  from  his  course.  Some 
of  these  berries  were  once  mistaken  for  fox 
grapes.  In  the  moist  sand  at  the  foot  of  these 
blueberry  bushes,  the  modest  houstonia  blossoms 
throughout  six  consecutive  months  of  the  year. 
It  comes  in  May,  and  it  fades  not  until  Novem- 
ber. The  bunchberry  retains  its  flowers  in 
these  groves  until  long  after  its  berries  are  red 
elsewhere.  Yet  autumn  flowers  are  not  notice- 
ably slow  in  blooming  by  the  lake.  One  of  these 
autumn  flowers  is  an  interesting  hybrid,  so  rec- 
ognized at  the  Gray  Herbarium.  For  four 
years  we  have  foimd  several  roots  of  a  golden- 
rod  which  is  neither  the  ccesia,  which  it  closely 
resembled  in  form,  nor  the  bicolor,  from  which 
it  inherits  its  white  ray  flowers.  Both  of  these 
familiar  species  grow  near  it,  and  are  presum- 
ably its  parents. 

Within  the  waters  of  the  lake  there  is  abun- 
dant life.  Years  ago  it  was  a  famous  trout 
pond,  stocked  perhaps  by  the  Indians,  but  the 


CANOE  BIRCHES  OF  THE  BEARCAMP  VALLEY 


A  LONELY  LAKE.  4t 

malice  of  the  white  man  spoiled  it.  A  man  who 
had  a  gi'udge  against  those  who  most  enjoyed 
trout-fishing  in  the  lake  caught  a  paiKul  of  horn- 
pout  and  turned  them  into  the  green  waters. 
They  multiplied,  and  now  legions  of  them  move 
their  hideous  bodies  back  and  forth  through  the 
swaying  weeds  beneath  its  surface.  They  never 
grow  large,  but  their  numbers  are  appalling. 
Sometimes  when,  in  a  still  summer  evening,  the 
surface  of  the  lake  is  unruffled  by  wind,  and 
myriads  of  small  insects  have  fallen  upon  the 
water,  the  pout  appear  in  countless  multitudes, 
swimming  so  that  their  horns  or  tails  show  above 
the  water. 

The  tadpoles  also  are  extraordinarily  numer- 
ous at  some  seasons,  and  they,  too,  have  a  way 
of  coming  to  the  top  of  the  water  and  contem- 
plating the  upper  world,  to  which  they  hope  some 
day  rightfully  to  attain.  A  sudden  stamp  of 
the  foot  upon  the  shore  will  cause  hundreds  of 
these  floating  polywogs  to  splash  into  foam  the 
water  over  half  the  surface  of  the  lake.  The 
painted  tortoise  lives  in  the  lake,  but  no  other 
creature  of  his  kind  is  found  near  it.  In  fact, 
I  have  never  seen  the  spotted  turtle  in  the  Bear- 
camp  valley.  I  once  dug  seventeen  painted 
turtles  out  of  one  hole  in  the  mud  on  the  west- 
em  edge  of  the  lake,  where  they  had  crowded 
for  some  reason  of  their  own. 


42  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

Of  all  the  many  creatures  which  frequent  the 
lonely  lake,  the  big  blue  heron  seems  to  be  the 
most  in  sympathy  with  its  shy  silence  and  lone- 
liness. He  is  its  king,  and  by  his  name  the  lake 
is  known. 


FOLLOWING   A  LOST  TRAIL. 

Op  the  many  roads  which  start  northward 
from  Bearcamp  Water,  every  one  is  either 
warded  off  by  the  Sandwich  range  into  the  Saco 
or  into  the  Pemigewasset  valley,  or  else  smoth- 
ered in  the  dark  forest-clad  ravines  between  the 
mountain  ridges.  From  Conway  on  the  east  to 
Campton  and  Thornton  on  the  west,  there  is  no 
rift  in  the  mountain  wall  through  which  travel 
flows.  There  was  a  time,  however,  before  the 
Civil  War,  when  near  the  middle  of  the  great 
barrier  the  hmnan  current  found  an  outlet 
southward  from  the  upper  end  of  Swift  Eiver 
intervale  to  the  Bearcamp  Valley.  Sitting  by 
the  fireside  of  a  sturdy  Albany  farmer  as  the 
December  moonlight  gleamed  upon  the  level 
snows  of  the  intervale,  I  heard  stories  of  the 
lumbermen's  journeys  through  those  dark  and 
narrow  passes.  Great  spars  and  masts,  the 
farmer  said,  had  been  hauled  out  of  the  valley 
under  the  frowning  cliffs  of  Paugus,  and  carried 
safely  to  the  level  fields  of  Sandwich.  Then 
there  arose  a  storm  such  as  old  men  know  but 
once  in  a  lifetime,  and  the  passes  were  filled 


44  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

with  tangled  masses  of  wrecked  forest.  All  the 
axes  in  Albany  and  Tamworth  could  not  have 
cut  a  way  through  the  snarl  without  many  weeks 
of  exhausting  labor.  So  at  least  thought  the 
lumbermen  who  attempted  to  pass  the  abattis 
raised  by  the  storm.  Years  elapsed  and  the 
road  became  only  a  matter  of  vague  tradition. 
Those  who  climbed  the  peak  of  Passaconaway 
or  the  lofty  ledges  of  Paugus  saw  below  them  a 
panorama  of  ruin.  Bleached  bones  of  the  great 
spruce  forest  lay  there  piled  in  magnificent  con- 
fusion. Over  the  debris,  springing  from  its 
midst,  a  dense  growth  of  mountain  ash,  wild 
cherry,  and  hobble-bush  made  the  chaos  more 
chaotic.  No  trace  of  the  lost  trail  was  visible 
even  to  the  most  fanciful  eye. 

Between  Paugus  and  Chocorua  the  hurricane 
had  not  done  its  worst  work.  There  one  could 
see  four  miles  of  narrow  ravine  reaching  from 
the  Tamworth  fields  directly  northward  to  a 
steep  ridge  connecting  Paugus  with  Chocorua 
at  their  northern  slopes.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  barrier  lay  the  Swift  Eiver  intervale.  If 
that  ridge  were  out  of  the  way,  if  it  could  be 
easily  surmounted,  or  if  a  rift  could  be  found 
in  it,  the  journey  of  nearly  thirty  miles  from 
the  southern  spurs  of  Paugus,  round  through 
Conway  to  the  northern  spurs,  would  be  reduced 
to  eight  or  nine  miles.     The  people  living  at 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  45 

the  upper  end  of  Swift  River  valley,  instead  of 
having  to  travel  sixteen  miles  to  a  post-office, 
doctor,  minister,  or  store,  could  touch  civiliza- 
tion by  driving  about  eleven  miles. 

At  half  past  four  on  the  morning  of  Satur- 
day, July  30,  I  drove  rapidly  away  from  my 
red-roofed  cottage  towards  the  southern  foot  of 
Paugus.  Long  days  of  parching  heat  had  been 
brought  to  an  end  by  a  series  of  three  heavy 
thunderstorms,  which  had  drenched  the  country 
during  the  preceding  evening.  Nature  had 
revived.  The  sky  was  bluer,  the  forest  greener, 
the  gold  of  the  goldenrod  more  intense.  Every 
particle  of  dust  had  been  washed  out  of  the  air 
and  oif  the  many-tinted  garments  of  the  earth. 
For  nearly  a  fortnight  the  mercury  had  been 
among  the  nineties  as  often  as  the  clock  struck 
noon.  To  face  a  cool  breeze,  to  see  everything 
sparkling  with  moisture,  to  have  the  air  feel 
and  appear  thin  and  clear,  was  inspiring  and 
exhilarating.  To  find  the  lost  trail  into  the 
Swift  Eiver  valley  was  now  a  matter  of  delight- 
ful interest. 

At  the  southern  foot  of  Paugus  is  a  ruined 
mill  and  an  old  lumber  camp.  A  good  road 
leads  thither  from  the  highway,  and  the  house 
at  the  point  where  the  lumber  road  begins  is 
the  home  of  Nat.  Berry,  farmer,  lumberman, 
hunter,  trapper,  surveyor,  carpenter,  and  pub- 


46  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

lie-spirited  citizen.  I  felt  that  if  any  man  on 
the  southern  side  of  the  mountains  knew  a  way 
through  them,  that  man  was  Berry.  Two  years 
before,  while  wandering  over  the  ridges  of  Cho- 
corua,  I  had  been  caught  in  one  of  Berry's  forty- 
pound  steel  bear  traps.  The  springs  of  the  trap 
were  weak  and  it  was  deeply  buried  in  the  moss, 
so  that  before  its  cruel  jaws  had  closed  firmly 
upon  my  ankle,  I  thrust  the  stock  of  my  gun 
between  them  and  withdrew  my  foot.  Berry's 
greeting,  as  we  drove  up  to  his  house,  showed 
that  he  had  not  forgotten  my  adventure,  for 
he  shouted,  "Come  at  last,  have  you,  to  let  me 
cut  off  them  ears?  Can't  c'lect  my  bounty  on 
you  without  'em."  A  few  words  told  Berry  of 
my  errand,  and  he  at  once  showed  interest  in 
the  quest. 

"Thirty-seven  year  ago,"  he  said,  "when  I 
was  only  twelve  year  old,  a  road  was  run 
through  from  this  house  to  the  back  settlements. 
It  was  a  winter  road,  but  I  recollect  that  a  man 
and  his  wife  drove  over  it  in  a  pung.  They 
went  clean  through.  About  fifteen  year  ago  I 
went  in  where  you  are  a-going,  with  a  railroad 
surveyor,  and  he  said  there  was  only  five  hun- 
dred feet  rising  between  here  and  the  height  of 
land.  There  used  to  be  another  road  between 
Toadback  and  Passaconaway,  but  that  's  all 
choked  up  now  by  the  harricane.     This  road  is 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  47 

between  Toadback  and  Coroway,  and  I  know 
that  four  miles  of  it  is  about  as  good  going  now 
as  ever  it  was." 

It  required  little  urging  to  induce  Berry  to 
join  us,  and  our  horse's  head  was  turned  north- 
ward into  the  lumber  road  leading  to  the  lost 
trail.  As  we  drove  away  from  fields,  roads, 
and  the  surroundings  of  habitations,  animal  life 
grew  less  and  less  abundant,  and  plant  life  less 
varied.  Around  the  farms  robins,  sparrows, 
and  swallows  are  to  be  seen  or  heard  at  every 
hour  in  the  day.  Woodpeckers  and  chickadees 
abound  in  the  orchards,  and  even  hawks  spend 
more  time  in  sight  of  hen-yards  than  they  do  in 
the  gloomy  solitudes  of  the  mountains.  By  the 
roadside  goldenrod  was  in  its  glory,  while  St. 
John's-wort  was  growing  rusty.  The  pink  of 
hardback  and  thistles  large  and  small,  the  yel- 
low of  the  mullein,  the  reds  of  fireweed,  pas- 
ture lily,  and  the  sumac  fruit,  the  purple  of 
vervain,  early  asters,  and  the  persistent  brunella, 
and  the  white  of  the  exquisite  dalibarda,  of 
immortelles,  arrowhead,  and  the  graceful  spiran- 
thes  in  turn  caught  the  eye  as  the  wagon  rolled 
by  pasture  and  sandbank,  meadow,  copse,  and 
swamp. 

From  Berry's  house  we  drove  a  long  mile 
before  the  true  primeval  forest  was  reached. 
There,  in  a  clearing  of  an  acre  or  more,  were 


48  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

the  ruins  of  a  saw -mill,  two  or  three  slab  houses, 
and  a  collapsed  stable  where  the  lumbermen's 
oxen  had  been  kept  in  the  winter  nights,  years 
ago.  In  the  mill's  time  sawdust  had  covered 
everything;  but  now  the  strong,  quarrelsome 
blackberry  had  mastered  the  sawdust.  Our 
guide  pointed  to  a  break  in  the  solid  wall  of 
woods  surrounding  the  mill,  so  we  struggled 
through  the  blackberry  jungle  and  left  the  sun- 
light behind  us.  As  we  entered  the  forest, 
bird  music  ceased,  few  flowers  decked  the 
ground,  —  the  pallid  Indian  pipe  seeming  more 
akin  to  the  fungi  than  to  flowers,  —  and  not  a 
squirrel  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  endless  aisles. 
Here  and  there  small  brightly  colored  toadstools 
and  the  fruit  of  bunchberry  or  clintonia  lent 
a  bit  of  vermilion,  orange,  yellow,  or  lustrous 
metallic  blue  to  the  dull  brown  carpet  of  the 
woods;  or  a  branch  of  maple,  prematurely 
robbed  of  its  chlorophyll,  gleamed  in  the  far-off 
sunlight  among  the  tree-tops.  If  by  chance  the 
eye  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  flowers  of  the  rattle- 
snake plantain,  or  of  some  of  the  greenish  wood 
orchids,  it  found  in  them  less  color  than  in  the 
toadstools  and  less  perfume  than  in  the  needles 
of  the  balsam. 

There  extended  before  us  a  clearly  marked 
passageway  between  the  giant  trunks  of  ancient 
trees.     It  was  the  beginning  of  the  old  trail. 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  49 

Stout  young  saplings  had  grown  up  within  it, 
and  the  long  interlacing  stems  of  the  hobble- 
bush,  or  "tangle-foot"  as  Berry  called  it,  con- 
cealed its  many  inequalities.  We  proceeded 
slowly,  cutting  away  bushes  as  we  went,  and 
the  horse  followed  with  the  wagon,  which  rose 
and  fell  over  logs  and  boulders  as  though  tossed 
on  the  waves  of  the  sea.  At  the  end  of  half  a 
mile,  we  decided  to  leave  the  horse  with  all  of 
our  impedimenta  except  axes  and  luncheon.  A 
space  was  accordingly  cleared,  and  Kitty,  tied 
to  a  large  tree,  was  fenced  in  on  two  sides  to 
prevent  her  from  walking  around  the  tree,  and 
so  choking  herself. 

The  trees  which  formed  the  forest  were  of 
many  kinds,  making  it  much  more  interesting 
than  the  monotonous  spruce  growth  of  the 
higher  slopes.  Those  which  were  to  all  appear- 
ance the  oldest  were  the  yellow  birches,  hun- 
dreds of  them  having  tnmks  over  ten  feet  in 
circumference  at  a  point  two  feet  from  the 
groimd.  Some  of  the  giant  hemlocks  were 
larger,  but  they  are,  I  believe,  trees  of  more 
rapid  growth  than  the  yellow  birch  and  so  prob- 
ably less  venerable.  There  was  a  large  repre- 
sentation of  ancient  beech-trees  with  trunks 
which  looked  as  hard  as  granite,  yet  which  made 
me  think  of  wrestlers  with  swollen  muscles 
strained  and  knotted  under  the  tightly  drawn 


50  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

skin.  Some  of  the  beeches  seemed  to  have  be- 
gun life  in  mid-air,  for  their  trunks  rested  upon 
tripods  or  polypods  of  naked  and  spreading 
roots,  which  held  them  two  or  even  three  feet 
from  the  surface  of  the  soil.  In  other  cases 
these  polypods  clasped  great  boulders  in  their 
unyielding  embrace,  showing  that  the  beech  in 
its  infancy  had  taken  root  upon  the  top  of  the 
rock,  and  year  by  year  extended  its  thirsty  ten- 
tacles lower  and  lower  down  the  sides  of  its 
mossy  foundation  until  the  soil  was  reached. 
Then  the  hungry  sapling,  fed  for  so  long  on 
meagre  supplies  of  food  and  water,  must  have 
expanded  with  sudden  vigor,  while  its  roots 
grew  strong  and  gripped  the  rock  in  tighter  and 
tighter  embrace.  The  only  way  of  accounting 
for  the  empty  polypods  seemed  to  be  to  suppose 
the  trees  to  have  sprouted  upon  stumps  prone 
to  decay,  or  upon  rocks  capable  of  rapid  disin- 
tegration. Many  of  the  glimpses  through  these 
beech  woods  reminded  me  of  the  grotesque  for- 
est pictures  which  are  produced  so  frequently 
in  German  woodcuts. 

Huge  maples,  with  bark  resembling  that  of 
ancient  oaks,  formed  an  important  part  of  the 
forest,  and  so  did  canoe  birches  of  various  ages, 
solitary  white  pines  of  inunense  height,  and  old- 
growth  spruces,  the  last  named  becoming  more 
and  more  numerous  as  our  road  gained  higher 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  61 

levels.  Dozens  of  these  trees  had  been  struck 
by  lightning  and  more  or  less  injured.  One 
had  been  completely  shattered  and  surrounded 
by  a  spiral  abattis  of  huge  splinters  stuck  firmly 
into  the  ground. 

The  twilight  and  silence  of  the  forest  made 
it  restful  at  first,  but  as  the  day  wore  on,  rare 
glimpses  of  distance  and  of  sunlight  were  as 
welcome  to  us  as  to  men  confined  between 
prison  walls. 

We  had  gone  rather  more  than  three  miles 
from  Berry's  house  when  our  guide  paused  and 
said:  "There,  the  old  road  is  missing  for  a 
piece  beyond  this,  and  the  best  we  can  do  is  to 
head  north  and  spot  the  trees  as  we  go." 

To  that  point  there  had  been  evident,  to  eyes 
accustomed  to  forest  travel,  a  difference  be- 
tween the  continuity  of  large  timber  and  the 
strip  once  cleared  of  this  timber  in  order  to 
form  the  road.  Looking  back,  we  could  see  the 
passage;  looking  forward,  there  seemed  to  be 
no  trace  of  it.  The  greater  part  of  Paugus  had 
been  passed  on  our  left,  and  on  our  right  the 
peak  of  Chocorua,  which  at  Berry's  had  been 
northeast,  was  now  a  little  south  of  east  from 
us.  Before  us  the  valley  narrowed  somewhat, 
and  far  ahead  a  continuation  of  the  ridge  of 
Paugus  seemed  to  cross  the  northern  sky  line 
and  approach  the  northern  spurs  of  Chocorua. 


62  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Blazing  the  trees  as  we  walked  by  them,  both 
on  our  left  and  on  our  right,  on  the  south  side 
of  the  trunks  and  on  their  north  sides  also,  we 
pushed  forward  due  north.  Ever  since  leaving 
the  ruined  mill  our  way  had  lain  close  to  the 
foot  of  Paugus,  the  width  of  the  valley  being 
between  us  and  the  foot  of  Chocorua.  Nearly 
a  mile  was  traversed  before  we  touched  the  wall 
of  Paugus  barring  the  north  and  forcing  us  to 
bend  eastward.  Entering  a  narrow  ravine, 
none  too  wide  for  a  single  road  at  its  bottom, 
we  came  once  more  upon  the  lost  trail.  Marks 
of  the  axe  were  frequent,  but  the  great  hem- 
locks which  it  had  felled  were  mere  moss-covered 
pulp,  and  from  their  stumps  viburnum  or  young 
trees  had  sprouted.  Berry  found  spots  on  the 
trees  which  he  remembered  to  have  made  when 
he  guided  the  engineer  through  the  pass  fifteen 
years  before.  The  walls  of  the  ravine  grew 
steeper,  and  across  it  fallen  trees  occasionally 
blocked  the  way.  Presently  it  bent  sharply  to 
the  left,  so  that  we  were  once  more  headed 
northward,  and  then  it  widened  into  an  amphi- 
theatre half  a  mile  in  width,  wholly  surrounded 
by  steep  and  rocky  sides.  The  old  trail  was 
again  lost,  and  Berry  declared  that  out  of  this 
pocket  there  was  no  outlet  save  over  the  tower- 
ing ridge  at  the  north.  The  story  of  the  man 
and  woman  in  a  sleigh,  who  had  once  crossed 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  53 

this  frowning  barrier,  alone  sustained  our  hopes 
of  finding  a  pass  which  could  be  opened  to 
wheels. 

My  watch  said  that  it  was  10.30  a.  m.  As 
we  had  begun  our  first  meal  at  four  a.  m.,  a 
second  one  seemed  appropriate;  so  in  the  face 
of  our  frowning  crisis  we  lay  upon  the  moss 
and  made  way  with  the  larger  part  of  our  knap- 
sack's contents.  A  red  squirrel,  inquisitive, 
petulant  Chickaree,  came  down  from  the  ridge 
and  chattered  to  us.«  Far  above  in  the  tree- 
tops  two  birds  called  loudly  to  each  other. 
Their  notes  were  new  to  me,  and  so  shy  were 
they  that  I  secured  only  a  distant  glimpse  of 
them  through  my  glass.  They  seemed  to  prefer 
the  highest  tips  of  dead  trees,  from  which  they 
darted  now  and  then  into  the  air  after  insects. 
It  did  not  require  much  knowledge  of  birds  to 
assign  this  noisy  couple  to  the  family  of  the 
tyrant  flycatchers,  and  their  size  was  so  great  as 
to  make  them  one  of  three  species,  —  kingbirds, 
great  crested  flycatchers,  or  olive-sided  flycatch- 
ers. As  I  knew  the  first  two  well,  from  daily 
chances  to  watch  their  habits,  I  felt  practically 
certain  that  these  keepers  of  the  pass  were  the 
wild,  wayward,  and  noisy  olive-sided  flycatchers 
of  which  I  had  heard  so  often,  but  never  before 
met  on  their  breeding-grounds.  Luncheon  over, 
we  faced  the  barrier,  and,  selecting  a  shallow 


54  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

ravine  in  its  side,  began  the  ascent.  While 
struggling  over  huge  boulders  and  winding 
around  fallen  trees  we  did  not  feel  as  though 
wheels  were  ever  likely  to  go  where  legs  were 
having  so  hard  a  time.  Still  the  ascent  was 
made  in  less  than  ten  minutes,  and  to  a  practi- 
cal road-builder  the  slope,  cleared  of  its  surface 
debris,  would  present  few  serious  obstacles. 

On  reaching  the  top  we  gained  a  view  of  the 
peak  of  Chocorua  well  to  the  south  of  east,  and 
of  the  ramparts  of  Paugus,  half  spruce  hung 
and  half  bald  rock,  bounding  the  long  valley- 
through  which  our  morning  tramp  had  taken 
us.  The  peak  of  Chocorua  had  lost  its  horn- 
like contour  and  resembled  more  a  combing 
wave  dashing  northward.  It  was  the  only  part 
of  the  mountain  proper  to  be  seen,  as  in  the 
foreground  a  massive  spur  projecting  northwest- 
ward completely  concealed  the  principal  mass. 
Looking  towards  the  north,  the  prospect  was 
disheartening.  The  ridge  on  which  we  stood 
had  been  a  battleground  of  the  elements.  It 
was,  in  the  language  of  this  region,  a  "harri- 
nane,"  and  woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  into  a 
''harricane."  We  advanced  cautiously,  choos- 
ing our  ground,  and  cutting  a  narrow  path 
through  the  small  spruces,  cherry  saplings,  and 
mountain  maples  which  had  overgrown  the 
fallen  forest.     Every  few  steps  we  came  upon 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  65 

stumps  which  bore  the  axe  mark  instead  of  that 
of  the  storm.  We  surmised  that  we  had  struck 
a  belt  which  had  been  "lumbered"  before  the 
hurricane  had  completed  its  destruction.  Fight- 
ing on  yard  by  yard,  we  crossed  the  top  of  the 
ridge  and  gained  its  northern  edge.  There  the 
signs  of  timber  cutting  were  plainer,  and  pres- 
ently I  noticed  a  curious  ribbon  of  saplings 
reaching  down  the  slope  in  front  of  us.  The 
young  trees  in  it  were  higher  than  the  wreck  on 
each  side  of  it,  yet  the  ribbon  was  the  road  and 
the  wreck  was  all  that  remained  of  the  forest 
through  which  the  road  had  been  cut  long  years 
ago.  The  broken  thread  of  the  lost  trail  had 
been  found.  Behind  us  a  blazed  path  reached 
into  the  Bearcamp  valley ;  before  us  the  lumber 
road  wound  downward  a  short  two  miles  to  the 
Swift  River  road,  now  plainly  visible  over  the 
sloping  tree-tops. 

We  followed  the  lumber  road  down  about  a 
mile,  searching  for  a  hut  which  Berry  remem- 
bered to  have  seen.  As  we  descended,  the 
"harricane  "  was  left  behind,  and  our  ribbon  of 
saplings  led  into  the  forest,  its  massed  stems 
contrasting  oddly  with  the  wide-spaced  trunks 
of  the  primeval  growth.  Coming  to  the  hut, 
which  Berry  said  had  been  built  twenty  years 
before,  we  found  it  remarkably  well  preserved. 
Straw  still  remained  in  the  lumbermen's  bunks, 


66  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

pieces  of  the  stove  lay  on  the  floor,  and  although 
the  roof  had  been  sprung  by  snow  resting  heav- 
ily upon  it,  the  hut  was  as  dry  and  habitable  as 
ever.  It  even  retained  the  "stuffy"  smell  of  a 
dirty  and  ill-ventilated  house.  It  was  inhabited, 
too,  not  by  men,  but  by  hedgehogs,  as  the  Amer- 
ican porcupine  is  universally  called  in  New 
Hampshire.  They  had  been  under  it,  through 
it,  and  over  it.  Every  piece  of  stair,  joist,  or 
floor,  upon  which  salt  or  grease  had  fallen,  had 
been  gnawed  away  by  them.  They  had  slept  in 
the  bunks  both  upstairs  and  down,  and  the  stairs 
bore  traces  of  their  constant  use. 

In  front  of  the  hut  stood  a  watering-trough. 
It  was  a  huge  log  hollowed  by  the  axe  into  two 
tanks,  a  small  one  at  the  upper  end  for  man's 
use,  and  a  larger  one  below  for  the  cattle. 
Small  logs  had  been  neatly  grooved  as  spouts  to 
lead  the  water  from  the  brook  to  the  trough. 
Moss  grew  upon  them  now  and  the  summer  sun- 
light shone  upon  them,  but  it  was  easy  to  ima- 
gine the  snow  piled  high  upon  the  hills,  smother- 
ing the  brooks  and  burying  the  rough  spouts, 
and  to  fancy  that  over  the  trampled  snow  the 
woolly  and  steaming  oxen  came  to  drink  of  the 
water,  while  a  sturdy  French  Canadian  broke 
the  ice  with  his  axe  and  drank  at  the  spot  where 
from  under  the  snow  the  spouts  led  the  water 
into  his  end  of  the  dugout.    The  cattle  are  dead, 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  57 

the  axe  has  rusted,  the  Canadian  has  been  killed 
in  a  brawl,  or  has  gone  back  to  his  River  St. 
Lawrence  to  spend  his  old  age  under  the  shadow 
of  the  cross,  but  the  brook  still  murmurs  over 
its  pebbles,  and  when  snow  falls  by  the  trough 
and  the  hut  it  is  cleaner  and  purer  than  the 
foot  of  the  lumberman  left  it. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  into  a  "harri- 
cane"!  Not  content  with  the  road  which  wo 
had  made  and  found  over  the  ridge,  we  sought, 
as  we  turned  homewards,  to  see  whether  another 
lumber  road,  which  came  into  ours  from  the 
southeast,  did  not  cross  the  ridge  by  an  easier 
grade.  Following  it  upward  higher  and  higher, 
we  came  at  last  to  an  open  ledge  from  which 
a  beautiful  view  was  gained.  Northward  of  us 
frowned  Bear  Mountain,  dark  in  its  spruces. 
To  its  left  were  Lowell,  Nancy,  Anderson,  and 
the  rest  of  the  proud  retinue  of  Carrigain. 
Deep  shadows  lay  in  Carrigain  Notch.  Bluer 
and  fairer,  higher  and  more  distant,  the  heads 
of  Bond,  Willey,  and  the  Franconia  Moimtains 
rested  against  the  sky.  To  the  westward,  above 
the  long  rampart  of  Paugus  with  its  flat,  gray 
cliffs  capped  by  black  spruce,  towered  the  cone 
of  Passaconaway,  wooded  to  its  very  tip.  South- 
ward, just  across  a  deep  ravine  and  behind  a 
heavily  timbered  spur,  was  Chocorua,  its  great 
tooth  cutting  into  the  blue  heavens.    Though  we 


68  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

enjoyed  the  picture  of  the  distance,  we  were  filled 
with  something  like  despair  at  the  foreground. 
On  three  sides  of  us  the  "harricane"  extended 
as  far  as  the  nature  of  the  ground  permitted  us 
to  see.  Westward,  along  the  ridge,  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  lay  our  trail  of  the  morning,  it 
reached  for  half  a  mile  at  least,  and  through  it 
we  must  go,  unless,  indeed,  we  preferred  to  re- 
trace our  steps  into  the  Swift  River  valley  and 
regain  our  path  by  such  an  ignominious  circuit. 
Seen  from  above,  that  half-mile  of  forest  wreck 
looked  like  a  jack-straw  table  of  the  gods. 
Thousands  of  trees,  averaging  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  in  height,  had  been  uprooted  and  flung  to- 
gether "every  which  way."  They  were  flat  upon 
the  ground,  piled  in  parallel  lines,  crossed  at 
right  angles,  head  to  head,  root  to  root,  twisted 
as  though  by  a  whirlwind,  or  matted  together  as 
they  might  have  been  had  a  sea  of  water  swept 
them  from  hill-crest  to  valley.  Boulders  of 
various  sizes  lay  under  the  wreck,  and,  to  make 
its  confusion  more  distracting,  saplings,  briers, 
and  vines  flourished  upon  the  ground  shaded 
and  enriched  by  the  wasting  ruin. 

It  took  more  than  an  hour  to  climb  and  tum- 
ble over  half  a  mile  of  this  tangle.  Any  one 
who  has  watched  an  ant  laboriously  traversing 
a  stubble-field  or  a  handful  of  hay,  crawling 
along  one  straw,  across  some,  under  others,  and 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  59 

anon  climbing  to  a  height  to  consult  the  dis- 
tance, will  know  how  we  made  our  journey. 
Men  go  through  great  battles  without  a  scratch, 
but  they  could  not  penetrate  a  "harricane  "  with 
any  such  fortunate  results. 

The  spots  on  our  blazed  trees  seemed  as 
friendly  as  home  on  a  winter's  night,  when  at 
last  we  reached  them  and  began  the  southward 
march.  As  we  had  been  two  hours  without 
water,  the  first  brook  drew  us  to  its  side  and 
held  us  entranced  by  its  tiny  cascades.  In  the 
pool  from  which  I  drank,  half  a  dozen  caddis- 
worm  cases  lay  upou  the  sand  at  the  bottom. 
They  were  sand,  yet  not  of  the  sand,  for  mind 
had  rescued  them  from  the  monotony  of  their 
matter  and  made  them  significant  of  life.  They 
had  faithfully  guarded  their  little  builders  while 
dormant,  and  now  those  awakened  tenants  had 
risen  from  the  water,  dried  their  gauzy  wings 
in  the  sun  and  vanished  in  airy  wanderings. 
Near  the  brook  lay  a  dead  tree,  and  upon  it  were 
fastened  a  number  of  brightly  colored  fxmgi. 
Their  lower  surfaces  and  margins  were  creamy 
white,  then  a  band  of  orange  vermilion  passed 
around  them,  while  the  upper  and  principal  part 
was  greenish  gray  marked  with  dark  brown 
wavelike  lines.  They  reminded  me,  by  their 
color  and  surface,  of  the  tinted  clay  images  or 
costume  figures  which  are  made  by  peasants  in 


60  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

several  parts  of  southern  Europe,  and  in  Japan. 
Anything  more  in  contrast  with  the  gloom  of 
a  northern  forest  would  be  hard  to  discover. 
Much  of  the  ground  near  the  brook  was  covered 
by  yew  bushes,  on  which,  brilliant  as  jewels, 
gleamed  their  pendent  and  slightly  attached  red 
berries.  The  mosses  and  lichens  were  the  glory 
of  the  wood.  Never  parched  by  thirst  in  these 
perpetual  shades,  they  grew  luxuriantly  on 
boulders,  fallen  logs,  standing  trees,  the  faces 
of  ledges,  and  over  the  moist  brook  banks  and 
beds  of  leaf  mould.  What  the  great  forest  was 
to  us,  that  the  mosses  must  be  to  the  minute 
insects  which  live  among  them. 

So  thoroughly  had  we  spotted  the  trees  in  the 
morning,  that  as  we  followed  our  trail  back 
there  was  not  a  moment  when  our  eyes  hesitated 
as  to  the  direction  of  the  path. 

Four  days  passed,  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
fifth  a  gay  column  wound  its  way  through  the 
forest  following  the  regained  trail.  Nearly  a 
score  of  axes,  hatchets,  and  savage  machettas 
resounded  upon  the  trees  and  shrubs  which  en- 
croached upon  the  road.  Behind  the  axemen 
came  several  horses,  each  bearing  a  rider  as 
courageous  as  she  was  fair.  If  branches 
menaced  the  comfort  of  these  riders,  they  were 
speedily  hewn  away;   if  the  hobble-bush  hid 


FOLLOWING  A  LOST  TRAIL.  61 

hollows  or  boulders  in  the  road,  it  was  cut  off  at 
the  root;  if  a  ford  or  a  bog  offered  uncertain 
footing  to  the  snorting  horses,  strong  hands 
grasped  their  bridles  and  they  were  led  through 
to  surer  ground.  When  the  difficulties  of  the 
road  became  serious,  the  horses  were  left  behind 
and  the  column  pressed  forward  on  foot.  The 
ridge  was  met  and  stormed,  the  "harricane" 
was  safely  pierced,  the  hedgehog's  hut  was  vis- 
ited and  passed,  and  the  old  lumber  road  was 
followed  swiftly  down  to  the  grass-land  and 
highway  of  the  Albany  intervale.  If  one  wo- 
man in  days  long  past  had  traversed  the  winter 
road  in  a  sleigh,  others  of  her  sex  had  now  over- 
come greater  difficulties  and  broken  the  stub- 
born barrier  of  the  Sandwich  range. 


A  NIGHT  ALONE   ON   CHOCORUA. 

The  10th  of  August  ranked,  by  the  family 
thermometer,  as  next  to  the  hottest  day  of  the 
summer.  It  was  a  marked  day  in  my  calendar, 
—  marked  long  in  advance  for  a  night  alone  on 
the  narrow  rock  which  forms  the  tip  of  Choco- 
rua's  peak.  It  was  chosen  on  account  of  the 
display  of  meteors  which,  in  case  of  a  clear  sky, 
always  makes  that  night  attractive  for  a  vigil. 
On  August  10,  1891,  I  counted  two  hundred 
and  fifty  meteors  between  sunset  and  eleven 
o'clock  p.  M.  As  I  watched  the  sky,  and  sa\* 
the  great  rock  of  the  peak  rising  sharply  into 
it,  I  determined  that  another  year  I  would 
count  my  meteors  from  its  summit,  and  not  from 
the  common  level  of  a  field. 

By  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  breeze  had 
drifted  down  to  us  from  the  mountains,  and  be- 
hind them  cloud-heads  were  rising  in  the  north- 
west. Fanned  by  the  breeze  and  undaunted  by 
clouds,  I  began  the  ascent  of  Chocorua  by  the 
Hammond  path.  In  the  woods  the  breeze  was 
stifled  by  the  trees,  and  I  was  stifled  by  the  still 
heat  which  oppressed  all  nature.     For  three 


A  NIGHT  ALONE   ON  CHOCORUA.  63 

miles  the  only  bird  I  heard  was  a  red-eyed 
vireo,  and  the  only  one  I  saw  was  a  grouse 
which  flew  from  the  path.  In  the  road  below 
and  along  the  trail  up  the  movintain  there  were 
dozens  of  young  toads.  They  were  about  the 
size  of  the  Indian's  head  on  a  cent.  I  won- 
dered how  far  up  the  trail  I  should  find  them, 
so  I  watched  closely  as  the  path  grew  steeper 
and  steeper.  The  last  one  seen  was  about  six- 
teen hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  and  one  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  Hammond  clearing  where  I 
first  noticed  them.  There  is  no  still  water 
within  a  mile  of  the  point  where  I  found  the 
last  one.  In  view  of  such  facts,  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  account  for  the  popular  belief  that  young 
toads  fall  from  the  clouds  with  rain. 

Clearing  the  forest,  and  reaching  the  open 
ledges  on  the  crest  of  the  great  southeastern 
ridge  of  Chocorua,  along  which  the  Hammond 
path  runs  towards  the  peak,  I  saw  that  a  storm 
was  gathering  in  the  west.  Piles  of  thunder- 
heads  were  rolling  up  beyond  Whiteface  and 
the  Sandwich  Dome,  and  tending  northward. 
Chocorua  might  be  too  far  east  to  be  included 
in  the  drenching  which  was  in  store.  It  was 
not  too  far  away  to  lose  the  cool  wind  which 
suddenly  changed  my  gasping  heat  into  a  shiver. 
With  a  quicker  pace  I  pushed  towards  the  foot 
of  the  peak. 


64     AT  THE  NORTH   OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

All  but   one   of   the   well-marked  paths  up 
Chocorua  spend  too  much  time  in  the  ravines 
and  woods.     It   is   discouraging   to   toil   mile 
after  mile  through  uninteresting  small  growth, 
without  a  breath  of  cool  air  or  a  glimpse  of  dis- 
tance.    The  Hammond  path  cancels  nearly  half 
the  height  of  the  mountain  in  the  first  mile  of 
woodland,  and  then  rewards  the  climber  by  suc- 
cessive views  which   grow   more   charming   as 
ledge  after  ledge  is  passed.     While   following 
the  top  of  the  slowly  rising  and  scantily  wooded 
ridge,  the  peak  is  seen  coming  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  growing  more  and  more  impressive.     Range 
after  range  of  northern  mountains   rise   above 
the   foreground,    and  the  far   horizon   widens 
slowly.     When  the  foot  of  the  peak  is  finally 
reached,  shutting   out  for   a   time   all  that  is 
grandest  in  the  view,  the  climber  feels  that  he 
must  scale  those  forbidding  cliffs,  whatever  be- 
comes of  him  when  the  final  struggle  is  over. 
So  I  felt  as,  at  about  half  past  six,  I  gained  the 
top  of  the  mountain's  shoulder  and  looked  up  at 
the  huge  rock  which  forms  its  a^\'ful  head.    The 
eastern  side  of  the  peak  is  so  precipitous  that 
few  have  the  temerity  even  to  try  to  scale  it. 
The  southern  side  is  broken  into  smaller  cliffs, 
between  which  tufts  of  spruces  grow.     In  winter 
this  face  is  quite  readily  climbed  upon  the  packed 
snow,  but  in  summer  wide  sloping  ledges  polished 


THE  PEAK  OF   CHOCORUA   FROM  THE  HAMMOND  TRAIL 


A  NIGBT  ALONE   ON  CHOCORUA.  65 

by  Ice  make  the  way  difficult  and  dangerous  to 
the  novice.  A  few  score  rods  to  the  west,  yet 
still  on  the  southern  face  of  the  peak,  there  is  a 
rift  in  the  cliffs  filled  with  small  trees  and  frag- 
ments of  rock.  This  cleft  leads  straight  up- 
wards to  a  small  sandy  plateau  on  the  west  side 
of  the  peak,  two  thirds  of  the  way  to  its  summit. 
As  I  struggled  up  this  almost  perpendicular  ra- 
vine, I  heard  the  steady  roar  of  thunder,  and 
saw  above  me  black  clouds  surging  across  the 
sky.  It  would  have  been  dark  had  not  the 
south  been  filled  with  silvery  light  and  hazy 
sunset  glory.  A  black-mouthed  cave  upon  my 
right  offered  a  refuge.  Hedgehogs  lived  in  it, 
but  its  outer  chamber  would  be  storm-proof. 
Should  I  wait?  No,  storm  or  no  storm,  I  would 
gain  the  peak,  and  do  my  part  to  keep  my  tryst 
with  the  stars. 

Stumbling  out  of  the  ravine  upon  the  plateau, 
I  faced  the  north.  A  picture  was  there  which 
made  the  memory  of  Dore's  strongest  delinea- 
tions of  Dante's  visions  seem  weak.  On  my 
right  was  an  upright  wall  of  black  rock,  on  my 
left  an  abyss.  Northward,  before  me,  lay  that 
wilderness  of  forests  and  peaks  which  forms  the 
White  Mountains,  thirty  miles  square  of  spruce 
forests,  and  all  of  it  on  edge,  —  a  sierra  forbid- 
ding at  its  best,  but  now  made  terrible  by  a 
tempest.     The  higher  heavens  were  filled  with 


66  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

loose,  rounded  black  clouds  with  white  spaces 
between  them.  Below  them,  impending  over 
a  belt  of  country  about  ten  miles  north  of  me, 
was  a  very  long  but  narrow  cloud,  black  as  ink, 
with  a  clean-cut  lower  edge  as  straight  as  a  level. 
From  it  forked  lightning  was  playing  downward. 
The  outlines  of  the  mountains  were  singularly 
clear.  I  could  see,  beginning  at  the  right,  the 
Presidential  Range,  the  Crawford  Notch,  An- 
derson, Nancy,  Lowell,  the  Carrigain  Notch, 
Carrigain ;  and  then,  partly  obscured  by  rain, 
the  Franconia  Mountains  and  the  nearer  heights 
of  Tripyramid  and  its  neighbors.  Just  over 
Tripyramid,  reaching  nearly  to  the  zenith,  was 
an  opening  in  the  clouds,  a  narrow  space  be- 
tween two  storms.  It  was  clear  gold  within, 
but  hideous  black  profiles  were  outlined  against 
it,  as  though  the  fiends  of  one  storm  were  look- 
ing across  it  at  their  allied  hosts  in  the  second 
bank  of  clouds  now  hurrying  upward  from  the 
southwest. 

Turning  sharply  to  the  right,  I  found  and 
climbed  the  rough  path  leading  up  the  rocks  to 
the  highest  point  on  the  peak.  Three  thousand 
feet  below  me,  in  that  peaceful  valley  by  the 
lake,  was  my  home.  I  could  just  see  its  red 
roof  among  the  trees.  Wind  ripples  were  chas- 
ing each  other  across  the  lake,  marring  its  white 
surface.     The  lake  is  heart-shaped,  and  my  cot- 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOC  OR  U A.  67 

tage  rests  at  the  tip.  No  storm  impended  ovef 
those  whom  I  had  left  behind,  but  the  voice  of 
the  thunder  reminded  me  of  what  was  passing 
to  the  northward. 

Under  the  long  level  black  cloud,  from  which 
zigzag  lightning  darted  downward  like  a  snake's 
tongue,  were  three  zones  of  color.  The  first, 
nearest  the  east,  and  at  the  head  of  the  storm  as 
it  moved  forward,  was  gray.  It  was  formed  of 
scud.  The  second  was  black,  and  from  it  shot 
most  of  the  lightning.  The  third  was  snowy- 
white  shaded  by  perpendicular  lines.  This  was 
the  rain.  Each  belt  seemed  to  be  two  miles  or 
more  in  width,  and  the  whole  was  moving  about 
twenty  miles  an  hour.  When  I  reached  the 
peak,  Carrigain  Notch  was  just  passing  under 
the  scud,  and  as  I  watched,  Lowell,  Anderson, 
and  Nancy  were  in  turn  obscured.  By  the  time 
Mount  Nancy  was  covered,  Carrigain  and  its 
notch  were  reappearing.  Meanwhile,  the  golden 
gap  in  the  clouds  had  closed,  and  the  second 
storm  was  approaching.  Its  course  was  such  as 
to  take  in  Chocorua,  Paugus,  and  the  Swift 
River  intervale  which  lay  just  below  me  on  the 
north.  Wild  as  the  first  storm  made  the  north- 
ern sky,  the  second  one  seemed  bent  upon  mak- 
ing the  picture  even  more  gloomy.  It  was  tht; 
moment  of  sunset,  but  the  sun  was  lost  in  a 
wilderness  of  thunder-clouds.   Suddenly  a  sound 


68  AT  THE  NORTH   OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

clear  and  sweet  came  to  me.  It  was  the  first 
sound,  save  thunder  and  wind,  that  I  had  heard 
since  reaching  the  peak.  A  long,  pure  note, 
followed  by  one  much  higher,  repeated  several 
times,  formed  the  song  of  my  companion  on  the 
heights.  It  was  the  farewell  to  the  day  of  a 
white-throated  sparrow,  that  sweetest  singer  of 
the  mountain  peaks.  A  feeling  of  forlornness 
which  had  been  creeping  over  me  was  dispelled. 
Let  the  storm  come;  I  was  ready  for  it. 

Not  many  rods  below  the  peak,  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  eastern  crag,  stands  an  enormous 
detached  rock,  roughly  cubical  in  shape,  and  at 
least  twenty  feet  in  each  dimension.  This  rock, 
which  is  known  as  "the  Cow,"  rests  upon  a 
narrow  shelf  having  a  saucer-shaped  depression 
about  fifteen  feet  in  diameter  in  its  upper  sur- 
face. The  Cow  projects  slightly  beyond  the 
outer  edge  of  the  ledge,  but  at  the  point  where 
it  projects  the  concavity  of  the  under  granite 
leaves  a  space  exactly  eighteen  inches  in  height 
and  several  feet  long,  which  admits  light  into 
the  hollow  beneath  the  Cow.  Years  before,  I 
had  discovered  this  strange  cave,  and  had  foimd 
that  a  projecting  corner  of  rock  gave  standing- 
room  near  enough  to  the  narrow  mouth  to  allow 
a  man  to  creep  into  it.  To  this  shelter  I  deter- 
mined to  take  my  luggage  for  safe-keeping  dur- 
ing the  rain.     As  I  wound  my  way  down  the 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOCORUA.  69 

zigzag  path  to  the  cave,  a  junco  flew  past  me  in 
the  gloom  and  chirped  inquiringly.  A  drop  or 
two  of  rain  fell.  Thunder  roared  in  the  south- 
west as  well  as  in  the  north.  The  mountains 
had  lost  the  wonderful  dark  violet  shade  which 
they  possessed  before  the  light  faded,  and  were 
now  almost  black,  those  nearest  being  darkest. 
As  I  reached  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  an  uncom- 
fortable thought  intruded  itself  upon  my  mind, 
—  was  it  possible  that  bears  used  the  cave?  I 
peered  in.  The  place  was  empty  now,  at  all 
events.  Pushing  in  my  oilskin  coat,  jersey, 
knapsack  with  lunch,  lantern,  and  star-atlas,  I 
slid  in  after  them.  At  the  deepest  part  of  the 
depression  in  the  ledge,  the  space  between  the 
rock  below  and  the  rock  above  is  thirty  inches. 
I  could  not  sit  up  straight,  but  I  could  recline 
comfortably  at  various  angles.  Lighting  my 
lantern,  I  unpacked  my  bag  and  furnished  my 
lodgings.  A  watch,  match-box,  foot  rule,  ther- 
mometer, pencil,  a  mirror  for  signaling,  com- 
pass, hunting-knife,  bird  whistles,  supper, 
breakfast,  and  dry  underclothing  made  the  cave 
seem  quite  homelike.  The  dry  clothing  at- 
tracted me,  for  I  was  wet  with  perspiration, 
and  my  thermometer  reminded  me  that  I  felt 
chilly.  I  listened.  Was  it  raining?  No. 
Taking  my  lantern,  supper,  and  dry  clothes,  I 
wriggled  to  the  entrance  and  regained  the  air. 


70  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

Happy  thought :  if  any  bear  could  get  into  that 
cave,  it  would  be  a  very  thin  one.  Unhappy 
thought:  his  thinness  would  betoken  all  the 
greater  hunger. 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  for  although 
everything  above  was  black,  the  wind  seemed 
to  have  died  away  and  the  thunder  to  be  very 
distant.  On  the  narrow  ledge  between  the 
towering  pinnacle  and  the  black  abyss  below 
the  Cow,  I  discarded  my  damp  clothes  and  put 
on  the  dry  ones.  The  change  was  comforting. 
I  was  glad  when  it  was  accomplished,  for  I  had 
no  inclination  to  fight  a  bear  in  the  costume  of 
Mulvaney  at  the  taking  of  Lungtungpen. 

Step  by  step  I  crept  back  up  the  cliff  to  the 
summit.  There  was  wind  enough  on  top,  and 
my  lantern  had  to  be  thrust  into  a  crack  in  the 
rock  on  the  lee  side  to  keep  it  not  only  from 
blowing  out,  but  from  blowing  away.  The  top 
of  Chocorua  is  about  the  shape  and  size  of  a 
large,  wide  dining-table.  On  the  south,  other 
levels  lead  up  to  it  gradually ;  but  west,  north, 
and  east  this  highest  rock  is  bounded  by  abrupt 
sides,  from  which  a  fall  in  the  night  would  be  a 
serious  matter.  Lying  down  on  this  dizzy  plat- 
form, I  ate  my  supper  with  savage  relish,  and 
took  new  account  of  the  night  and  its  pictures. 
Except  when  lightning  illumined  some  part  of 
the  horizon,  the  only  things  visible  to  me  were 


A  NIGHT  ALONE   ON  CHOCORUA.  71 

the  long  black  ridge  of  Paugus,  the  hump  of 
Passaconaway  over  Paugus,  fragments  of  white 
ledges  on  the  northern  spurs  of  Chocorua,  and 
lakes  in  the  valley.  Even  Ossipee  Lake,  fif- 
teen miles  or  more  away,  was  plainly  distin- 
guishable as  a  white  spot  in  the  surrounding 
gloom.  Lights  shone  from  many  of  the  cot- 
tages near  Chocorua  Lake,  and  from  Birch  in- 
tervale, Albany  intervale,  and  Conway.  They 
were  the  connecting  link  between  me  and  the 
rest  of  mankind.  In  the  sky  there  was  absolute 
blackness,  curiously  broken  once  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  red  planet  for  the  space  of  a 
single  minute.  Sometimes  a  few  drops  of  rain 
fell,  but  the  second  storm  seemed  to  be  reserv- 
ing most  of  its  strength  for  a  region  farther 
east.  It  was  now  nine  o'clock,  and  the  first 
storm  had  passed  far  over  into  Maine,  its  light- 
ning playing  with  rapid  flashes  behind  Mount 
Pequawket.  At  every  flash  the  sky  just  behind 
the  pyramidal  peak  assumed  the  color  of  dead 
gold,  while  the  mountain  was  embossed  upon  it 
like  an  emblem  on  a  shield.  Occasionally  the 
second  storm  produced  lightning,  and  when  it 
did  so  the  effects  were  startling,  so  near  was  the 
heavenly  fire.  One  flash  was  from  side  to  side 
across  a  low  cloud  which  hung  near  Chocorua 
on  the  east.  It  was  very  vivid,  and  so  complex 
with  its  many  delicate  lines  and  loops  of  light 


72     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

that  a  fiery  sentence  appeared  to  have  been 
written  on  the  sky.  Another  bolt  was  broad 
and  straight,  and  went  down  into  the  forest  like 
an  arrow.  It  was  so  near  and  so  brilliant  that 
for  almost  a  minute  I  could  see  nothing.  The 
thunder  which  followed  it  began  in  the  zenith, 
and  rolled  away,  booming  and  crashing,  in  three 
directions,  lasting  so  long  that  I  wished  I  had 
timed  it,  to  see  for  how  many  seconds  its  terrific 
echoes  refused  to  subside.  As  many  of  its 
rumblings  and  mutterings  resounded  from  the 
ravines  and  hillsides  below  me,  the  effect  of  this 
great  peal  was  unlike  any  I  had  ever  before 
heard. 

While  I  was  listening  to  the  sighing  of  the 
wind-tossed  forest  in  the  hollows  eastward  of 
the  mountain,  another  sound  reached  my  ears, 
and  made  me  concentrate  my  senses  in  an  effort 
to  determine  its  nature.  At  the  moment  I 
heard  it,  I  was  somewhat  below  the  peak,  lean- 
ing against  a  wall  of  rock  facing  the  south. 
The  sound  seemed  to  come  from  above.  It 
resembled  that  made  by  a  thin  stick  or  shingle 
when  whirled  rapidly  in  the  air.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  a  creaking,  and  sounds  almost 
like  wailing  and  groaning.  A  moment  later,  a 
slender  column  of  white  cloud,  a  hundred  feet 
or  more  in  height,  but  proportioned  like  a  hu- 
man figure,  glided  past  the  mountain  over  the 


A   NIGHT  ALONE   ON  CHOCORUA.  73 

black  abyss  below  the  eastern  cliffs.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  I  was  interested  in  these 
phenomena.  I  was  much  more  than  interested  ; 
and  the  fact  that  I  was  absolutely  alone,  in  the 
dark,  miles  away  from  home,  with  a  storm  howl- 
ing around  me,  was  brought  clearly  to  my  mind. 
The  legend  of  Chocorua,  the  Indian  for  whom 
this  mountain  was  named,  of  his  curse  upon  the 
whites,  and  of  his  melancholy  death  near  these 
eastern  cliffs,  rose,  for  some  illogical  reason, 
into  my  memory. 

The  sounds  in  the  air  continued,  and  at  one 
time  made  me  wonder  whether  electric  waves 
passing  through  the  low-hanging  clouds  above 
me  could  produce  them.  There  being  no  light 
accompanying  the  sounds,  I  dismissed  this  hy- 
pothesis as  unsatisfactory.  Once  I  thought  that 
something  was  scratching  and  grinding  down 
the  side  of  a  sloping  ledge.  Since  rain  began 
falling  thick  and  fast  at  the  same  moment,  I 
seized  my  lantern  and  retreated  to  the  cave. 
When  I  gained  the  diz2y  rock  at  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  the  heavens  again  spoke,  and  mist- 
forms  swept  past  in  front  of  me.  The  next 
moment  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  cave,  won- 
dering whether  a  temperature  of  60°,  which  my 
thermometer  recorded,  justified  wholly  the  goose- 
flesh  that  crept  over  me. 

My  lantern  cast  a  clear,  steady  light  into  all 


74     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

parts  of  the  cave.  Now  and  then  a  flash  of 
lightning  showed  where  the  entrance  faced  the 
east,  and  where  one  or  two  other  cracks  were 
open  between  the  Cow  and  its  rocky  foundation. 
I  lay  perfectly  motionless,  pondering  upon  the 
strange  sounds  I  had  heard.  My  eyes  rested 
upon  several  stones  lying  in  the  narrow  space 
beyond  my  feet  where  the  two  rocks  neared  each 
other.  Something  moved  there.  A  body  had 
passed  from  the  shelter  of  one  stone  to  that 
of  another.  I  held  my  breath,  and  watched. 
Again  a  brownish  thing  flashed  past  an  open- 
ing, came  nearer,  darted  forward  into  the  light, 
vanished,  reappeared,  came  clearly  into  view, 
shot  back,  and  finally  sped  across  a  broad,  well- 
lighted  face  of  rock,  and  revealed  itself  as  a 
large  short-tailed  mouse,  —  perhaps  an  Eastern 
JPhenacomys  as  yet  unknown  to  collectors.  Al- 
though I  did  not  move  for  a  long  time,  he  failed 
to  reappear,  and  my  only  companion  was  a 
gauzy -winged  fly  which  sat  upon  my  knee  and 
contemplated  the  flame  of  the  lantern. 

The  rain  continuing,  I  sang  and  whistled  un- 
til after  ten  o'clock,  when  I  crawled  to  the 
mouth  of  my  cave  and  looked  down  into  the 
depths  beneath.  A  stone  thrown  far  out,  so  as 
to  clear  the  first  few  ledges,  might  fall  eight 
hundred  feet  before  it  struck  the  rocks  below. 
As  I  stared  into  the  darkness,  I  found  that 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOCORUA.  75 

much  which  had  been  invisible  an  hour  earlier 
was  now  dimly  outlined  in  black  and  white. 
The  sky,  too,  showed  gaps  in  its  curtain,  and 
ihe  white  lakes  in  the  distant  valleys  were  more 
silvery  than  before.  The  storm  was  over,  the 
moon  was  at  work  eating  the  clouds,  and  soon, 
I  hoped,  the  stars  would  keep  their  tryst.  Lan- 
tern in  hand,  I  crept  up  the  rocks,  and  settled 
myself  once  more  on  the  peak.  All  my  friendly 
lights  in  the  valley  had  gone  out,  and  I  was 
now  alone  in  the  sky. 

Paugus,  Passaconaway,  and  Whiteface  were 
quite  clearly  outlined  against  each  other  and 
the  sky.  They  seemed  very  near,  however,  so 
that  it  was  easier  for  me  to  imagine  myseK  on  a 
lonely  rock  in  the  ocean,  with  huge  waves  about 
to  overwhelm  me,  than  to  make  those  combing 
waves  stand  back  three,  eight,  twelve  miles  and 
become  spruce-covered  mountains.  Gradually 
other  mountain  outlines  became  discernible,  and 
the  cloud-curtain  above  showed  folds  and  wrin- 
kles, which  in  time  wore  out  under  the  moon's 
chafing  and  let  through  a  glimpse  of  Mars  or 
Vega,  marvelously  far  away  in  that  serene  ether. 
Half  an  hour  before  midnight  the  pale  disk  of 
the  moon  appeared  through  the  thin  clouds,  and 
at  the  witching  hour  she  sailed  out  proudly  into 
a  little  space  of  clear  blue -black  heaven.  The 
wind  came  in  fresher  puffs,  a  snowy  cloud-cap 


76     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

rested  on  the  head  of  Paugus,  and  the  air  was 
so  much  colder  that  I  was  glad  to  put  on  both 
jersey  and  oilskin  jacket.  A  dozen  lakes  and 
twenty -five  mountain  peaks  were  visible  at  half 
past  twelve,  and  Mars  had  worked  a  place  for 
his  red  eye,  so  that  it  could  look  down  through 
the  breaking  clouds  without  interruption. 
Drowsiness  now  overtook  me,  and  in  order  to 
keep  awake  I  was  forced  to  walk  rapidly  up  and 
down  the  small  area  of  the  top,  or  to  jump 
about  over  the  ledges  farther  south.  About 
one  o'clock  a  light  flashed  brightly  from  a  point 
near  the  Maine  line ;  perhaps  in  Fryeburg.  At 
first  I  thought  it  might  be  a  fire  which  would 
gather  strength  and  size;  then,  as  it  appeared 
to  move  and  come  nearer,  it  looked  more  like 
the  headlight  of  a  locomotive.  My  glass  made 
it  seem  smaller,  and  the  motion  was  so  slow  and 
irregular  that  I  thought  the  gleam  might  be 
from  a  doctor's  buggy,  as  the  man  of  sickness 
took  his  way  through  the  night. 

My  own  light  was  now  growing  dim,  so  I 
extinguished  it  in  order  to  save  the  remaining 
oil  for  emergencies.  Immediately  afterwards  a 
bat  flew  against  the  lantern,  and  then  perched 
upon  a  lichen-hung  rock  near  by,  to  recover  his 
composure.  The  moon  slowly  made  way  with 
the  clouds,  and  by  two  o'clock  a  quarter  part 
of  the  sky  was  clear.    The  mercury  had  dropped 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOCORUA.  77 

to  52",  and  the  moisture  hurled  against  the 
mountain  by  the  wind  was  condensed  and  sent 
boiling  and  seething  up  the  sides  of  the  peak. 
Tongues  of  fog  lapped  around  me  with  the  same 
spasmodic  motion  which  flames  display  in  rising 
from  a  plate  of  burning  alcohol.  At  first  they 
scarcely  reached  the  peak;  then  they  came  to 
my  feet,  and  swept  past  me  around  both  sides 
of  my  platform;  finally  they  flung  themselves 
higher  and  higher,  hiding  not  only  the  black 
valley  from  which  they  came,  but  Paugus  and 
more  distant  peaks,  the  sky,  the  moon,  and  the 
glimmering  stars.  Suddenly  from  the  fog-filled 
air  came  once  more  the  gruesome  sound  which 
I  had  heard  earlier  in  the  night.  Its  cause  was 
nearer  to  me  now,  and  I  felt  sure  that  it  was 
some  creature  of  the  air,  and  consequently  no- 
thing which  coidd  cause  me  inconvenience.  I 
strained  my  eyes  to  see  the  creature  as  it  passed, 
but  in  vain,  until  in  its  flight  it  chanced  to  cross 
the  face  of  the  moon.  Then  the  mystery  was 
solved.  I  saw  that  it  was  either  a  night-hawk 
or  a  bird  of  similar  size.  The  speed  at  which 
it  was  flying  was  wonderful.  When  it  tacked 
or  veered,  it  produced  the  extraordinary  sounds 
which,  with  their  echoes  from  the  rocks,  had  so 
puzzled  me  at  first.  Once  or  twice  during  the 
night  I  had  heard  night-hawks  squawking,  and 
from  this  time  on  their  harsh  voices  were  heard 


78  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

at  intervals  mingled  with  the  booming  which, 
for  some  unexplained  reason,  they  make  by  nighf 
as  well  as  by  day;  after  as  well  as  during  the 
breeding  season. 

A  few  minutes  after  two  o'clock  a  large  me- 
teor shot  across  a  small  patch  of  clear  sky  near 
the  constellation  Andromeda,  and  was  quenched 
in  the  fog.  From  time  to  time  other  smaller 
ones  flashed  in  brief  glory  in  the  same  quarter 
of  the  heavens,  and  one  brilliant  fragment 
burned  its  way  past  Jupiter,  as  though  measur- 
ing its  passing  glory  with  the  light  of  the  planet. 
The  wind  was  falling,  the  temperature  rising, 
and,  following  these  two  influences,  the  fog  de- 
creased, until  its  only  remnants  clung  to  the 
ponds  and  rivers  far  below.  Two  thirds  of  the 
sky  were  clear  by  three  o'clock.  In  the  east, 
the  Pleiades  sparkled  in  mysterious  consulta- 
tion ;  farther  north,  Capella  flashed  her  colored 
lights,  and  Venus,  radiant  with  a  lustre  second 
only  to  Selene's  own,  threw  off  the  clouds  which 
for  an  hour  had  concealed  her  loveliness,  and 
claimed  from  Mars  the  foremost  place  in  the 
triumph  of  the  night.  Her  reign  was  short. 
At  a  quarter  after  three  I  noticed  that  the  cloud- 
bank  which  lay  along  the  eastern  and  northern 
horizon  was  becoming  more  sharply  defined  by 
the  gradual  growth  of  a  white  band  above  it. 
A  greater  orb  than  Venus  was  undermining  her 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOCORUA.  79' 

power  in  the  east.  The  white  line  impercepti- 
bly turned  to  a  delicate  green,  and  extended  its 
area  to  left  and  right  and  upward.  The  clouds 
in  the  high  sky  took  on  harder  outlines  and 
rounder  shapes.  Shadows  were  being  cast 
among  them,  and  a  light  was  stealing  through 
them  from  something  brighter  even  than  the 
yellow  moon.  The  pale  green  band  had  changed 
to  blue,  the  blue  was  deepening  to  violet,  and 
through  this  violet  sky  the  brightest  meteor  of 
the  night  passed  slowly  down  until  it  met  the 
hiUs.  High  in  the  sky  the  stars  were  growing 
dim,  and  the  spaces  between  the  clouds,  which 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  badly  painted 
picture,  were  growing  blue,  deep  real  blue.  The 
line  of  brightest  light  above  the  eastern  clouds 
showed  a  margin  of  orange.  Venus  in  the  violet 
sky  was  still  dazzling,  but  her  glory  was  no 
longer  of  the  night,  but  of  the  twilight.  She 
was  wonderful,  in  spite  of  the  stronger  light 
which  was  slowly  overpowering  her.  Mars 
burned  like  a  red  coal  low  down  in  the  west, 
unaffected  thus  far  by  the  sim's  rays,  while 
Jupiter,  supreme  among  the  high  stars,  was 
paling  fast  as  the  light  of  day  rolled  towards 
him. 

The  eastern  sky  looked  strangely  flat.  Its 
colors  were  like  a  pastel  drawing.  Small,  very 
black  clouds,  with  hard  outlines,  lay  unrelieved 


80  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

against  the  violet,  silver,  and  orange.  A  full 
hour  had  sped  by  since  I  first  noted  the  coming 
of  the  day,  and  still  the  earth  below  slept  on. 
Hark  I  up  from  the  deep  valley  below  the  Cow 
comes  a  single  bird- voice,  but  scarcely  are  its 
notes  sprinkled  upon  the  cool,  clear  air,  when  a 
dozen,  yes,  fifty  singers  join  their  voices  in  a 

f  medley  of  morning  music.  The  first  songster 
was  a  white-throat,  and  the  bulk  of  the  chorus 
was  made  up  of  j  uncos  and  white-throats,  the 
stronger  song  of  Swainson's  and  hermit  thrushes 
coming   in  clearly  now  and  then  from  points 

,  more  distant  from  the  peak.  There  was  ecstasy 
in  those  matins.  No  sleepy  choir  of  mortal 
men  or  women  ever  raised  such  honest,  buoyant 
music  in  honor  of  the  day's  coming.  The  birds 
love  the  day,  and  they  love  life  for  all  that  each 
day  brings.  They  labor  singing,  and  they  sing 
their  vespers,  as  they  sing  their  matins,  with 
hearts  overflowing  with  joy  and  thanksgiving. 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  touching  and 
inspiring  in  the  combination  of  fading  night, 
with  its  planets  still  glowing,  and  the  bird's 
song  of  welcome  to  the  day.  Night  is  more 
eloquent  than  day  in  telling  of  the  wonders  of 
the  vast  creation.  Day  tells  less  of  distance, 
more  of  detail ;  less  of  peace,  more  of  contest ; 
less  of  immortality,  more  of  the  perishable.  The 
sun,  with  its  dazzling  light  and  burning  heat, 


A  NIGHT  ALONE  ON  CHOCORUA.  81 

hides  from  us  the  stars,  and  those  still  depths 
as  yet  without  stars.  It  narrows  our  limit  of 
vision,  and  at  the  same  time  hurries  us  and 
worries  us  with  our  own  tasks  which  we  will  not 
take  cheerfully,  and  the  tasks  of  others  which 
are  done  so  ill.  Night  tells  not  only  of  repose 
on  earth,  but  of  life  in  that  far  heaven  where 
every  star  is  a  thing  of  motion  and  a  creation 
full  of  mystery.  Men  who  live  only  in  great '] 
cities  may  be  pitied  for  being  atheists,  for  they 
see  little  beyond  the  impurity  of  man ;  but  it 
seems  incredible  that  a  being  with  thoughts 
above  appetite,  and  imagination  above  lust, 
should  live  through  a  night  in  the  wilderness, 
with  the  stars  to  tell  him  of  space,  the  dark 
depths  of  the  sky  to  tell  him  of  infinity,  and  his 
own  mind  to  tell  him  of  individuality,  and  yet 
doubt  that  some  Being  more  powerful  and  less 
fickle  than  himself  is  in  this  universe.  The 
bird-music  coming  before  the  night  is  ended 
combines  the  purest  and  most  joyous  element  of 
the  day  with  the  deep  meaning  of  the  night. 
The  birds  bear  witness  to  the  ability  of  life  to 
love  its  surroundings  and  to  be  happy.  The 
night  bears  witness  to  the  eternity  of  life  and  to 
the  harmony  of  its  laws.  ^ 


BRINGING  HOME   THE  BEAR. 

The  horn  of  Chocorua  rose  into  a  sky  full  of 
threatening  colors  and  shadows.  Its  own  color- 
ing was  sinister,  its  outlines  vague,  its  height 
apparently  greater  than  usual.  Low,  growling 
thunder  came  from  its  ledges  and  ravines.  The 
forest  at  its  feet,  which  ended  at  my  door,  was 
silent;  no  whisper  swept  through  its  waiting 
leaves.  In  the  west  as  in  the  north,  cloud 
masses  were  boiling  up  into  the  sky,  covering 
the  blue  with  white,  gray,  and  black,  through 
which  now  and  then  shot  a  ray  of  gold  from  the 
protesting  sun.  A  tempest  seemed  brewing  as 
a  not  imwelcome  close  of  a  mid-August  day. 

A  tall  man  emerged  from  the  woods  and  came 
striding  towards  me  across  the  grass.  A  rifle 
swung  to  and  fro  in  his  right  hand  as  he  walked. 
It  was  a  repeating  rifle,  one  of  those  inclusive 
successors  of  the  fowling-piece,  shot-pouch, 
powder-flask,  cap-box,  and  wad-pocket  of  this 
tall  man's  boyhood.  The  stride  ended  at  my 
side,  and  the  tall  man  and  I  spoke  of  the  heat, 
the  drought,  and  the  approaching  storm.  Just 
as  he  was  preparing  to  lope  onwards  down  the 
ribbon  road  through  the  birches,  I  said :  — 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  83 

"I  hear  Merrill  caught  a  bear  Saturday,  and 
brought  it  out  at  Piper's." 

"  That  so  ?     How  big  was  it  ?  " 

"A  small  one,  a  two-year-old,  probably.  It 
was  in  one  of  his  traps  and  he  shot  it." 

*'Well,  I  've  kept  up  with  him  this  time.  I 
shot  one  less  than  an  hour  ago,  and  he  wam't 
in  any  trap,  either." 

I  looked  at  the  man  wonderingly.  There  had 
been  no  unusual  spark  in  his  eye,  flush  on  his 
bronzed  cheek,  or  spring  in  his  heavy  step.  He 
had  not  boasted,  or  even  spoken  of  his  achieve- 
ment until  I  touched  his  pride  by  my  tale  of 
his  rival's  success.  Would  he  have  gone  home 
without  telling  me?  I  think  so.  Yet  this 
meeting  with  a  bear,  alone,  on  the  high  ledges 
of  Chocorua,  had  been  one  of  the  joys  of  this 
man's  life.  Many  a  weary  hour  had  he  carried 
his  magazine  rifle  over  the  ledges,  treading 
softly,  keeping  eye  and  ear  alert,  hoping  to  see 
Bruin  on  his  feeding-ground.  A  year  before 
he  had  trapped  and  killed  some  of  the  great 
creatures;  but  shooting  a  beast  caught  in  a 
forty-pound  steel  trap  is  tame  sport  compared 
with  facing  a  free  bear  on  the  open  ledges. 

Before  the  hunter  left  me,  we  had  arranged 
that  soon  after  sunrise  on  the  following  morn- 
ing he  was  to  pass  through  my  dooryard  on  his 
way  to  the  spot  where,  under  those  black  clouds, 
poor  Bruin  was  lying  dead. 


84     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

The  rage  around  Chocorua  deepened.  Boom, 
boom,  of  thunder  rolled  downward  from  the 
heights  of  storm.  The  peak  was  swept  by 
masses  of  rain.  Flash  after  flash  lit  up  the 
darkening  sky  behind  the  grim  mountain.  Still 
the  nearer  forests  lay  at  rest,  waiting.  Then  a 
golden  rift  came  in  the  western  cloud-bank. 
One  half  of  the  storm  rolled  past  us  on  the 
south,  drenching  Ossipee  and  Wolfborough,  the 
other  half  on  the  north,  soaking  Conway  and 
Fryeburg;  we  alone  were  dry. 

The  morning  of  the  13th  of  August  was 
breathlessly  hot.  Even  the  hermit  thrushes 
forgot  to  sing.  A  rattle  of  wheels  brought  me 
from  breakfast  to  join  the  party  organized  to 
bring  home  the  bear.  A  strong,  sure-footed 
horse  was  drawing  a  farm  wagon  which  had 
been  the  stand-by  of  an  earlier  generation,  and 
which,  therefore,  was  made  of  solid  stuff.  My 
tall  friend  and  two  of  his  hunting  satellites 
were  in  it,  and  around  them  were  strewn  rifle, 
hatchet,  ropes,  empty  grain -bags,  and  other  ap- 
paratus to  be  used  in  bringing  the  dead  brute 
down  the  mountain.  My  master  of  the  horse, 
an  alert  and  muscidar  Prince  Edward  Islander, 
stood  by  ready  to  march,  so  the  word  was  given, 
and  we  five,  some  walking,  some  in  the  ancient 
wagon,  started  for  the  mountain. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  road  was  good, 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  85 

winding  through  my  pasture  and  belts  of  white 
birches.  Then  we  turned  from  it  and  plowed 
through  beds  of  brake  and  blackberry  bushes 
dripping  and  glistening  with  dew.  We  might 
as  well  have  waded  waist  deep  in  the  lake, 
which  would  have  been  warmer  though  no  more 
wet  than  that  dew-deluged  tangle.  Next  came 
a  ravine  filled  with  spruces,  over  which  towered 
two  immense  canoe  birches,  at  whose  feet  a  cold 
spring  bubbled  in  a  sandy  pool.  The  horse 
wound  in  and  out  among  the  trees,  shaking  from 
them  showers  of  cold  dew-drops.  Small  sap- 
lings and  bushes  bowed  before  the  wagon  and 
passed  under  its  axles;  large  ones  were  bent 
away  by  strong  hands,  or  hacked  down.  Some- 
times the  wheels  locked  against  tree-trimks, 
bringing  the  horse  to  a  sudden  standstill,  and 
almost  throwing  the  passengers  to  the  ground; 
and  sometimes  they  sank  into  unseen  hollows 
filled  to  the  brim  with  ferns,  making  the  wagon 
careen  so  that  all  its  contents  slid,  or  struggled 
Jiot  to  slide,  against  its  sinking  side. 

Beyond  the  ravine  and  its  dripping  spruces 
was  a  narrow  sunny  valley  pointing  straight 
towards  the  mountain.  Up  this  valley  our 
party  continued  its  course,  the  sun  drying  the 
dew  from  our  clothes,  and  flashing  many  colors 
in  the  drops  still  clinging  to  brakes  and  grasses. 
Fifteen  hundred  feet  above  us  towered  the  West 


86  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Ledges,  on  which  the  bear  had  been  shot.  As 
one  looks  at  Chocorua  from  the  south,  its  peak 
seems  to  rest  upon  the  shoulders  of  two  converg- 
ing ridges,  one  sloping  upward  towards  it  from 
the  southeast,  and  one  from  the  southwest.  Be- 
tween the  two  ridges  the  soft  forest  drapery  of 
the  mountain  falls  in  graceful  folds  and  curves 
to  the  level  of  the  lake.  We  were  in  one  of 
these  folds,  climbing  towards  the  steep  inner 
side  of  the  western  ridge.  On  each  side  of  us 
lofty  trees  clung  to  the  slopes  of  the  valley. 
Owls  hoot  in  these  woods  after  twilight  and  at 
dawn.  Great  boulders  lie  in  confusion  in  the 
perpetual  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  in  the  cav- 
erns between  and  under  them  are  dens  of  por- 
cupines, foxes,  and  skunks. 

Not  until  we  reached  the  torrent  at  the  foot 
of  the  west  ridge  was  the  wagon  abandoned  and 
the  horse  tethered.  The  forest  at  this  point 
consists  mainly  of  poplars,  birches,  and  oaks. 
The  bear-slayer  led  the  way  through  them,  and 
his  more  muscular  satellite  followed  at  his  heels, 
cutting  saplings  in  order  to  form  a  path  for 
our  descent  with  the  bear.  After  climbing  sev- 
eral hundred  feet,  we  rested.  A  loud  humming 
filled  the  air,  yet  no  bees  were  to  be  seen. 
They  appeared  to  be  in  the  higher  foliage,  at- 
tracted by  something  on  the  leaves.  We  ex- 
amined the  lower  branches,  and  then  the  leaves 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  87 

of  low  shrubs  and  plants.  They  seemed  to  be 
covered  with  dew,  but  the  dew  was  sticky  and 
proved  to  be  sweet  to  the  taste.  As  we  contin- 
ued our  walk  we  found  that  the  entire  side  of 
the  mountain  had  been  sprinkled  with  heavenly 
sweetness  of  the  same  kind. 

The  roar  of  bees  had  become  familiar  to  our 
ears.  The  bear-slayer  was  bending  down  a 
slender  beech  for  the  satellite  to  cut,  when  sud- 
denly he  uttered  a  cry  and  sprang  backward. 
"Run,  run,"  he  shouted,  and  in  a  moment  the 
Islander  and  the  small  satellite  were  bounding 
down  the  mountain-side  like  chamois.  The 
larger  satellite  became  a  football  under  the 
bear-slayer's  feet,  and  I,  hearing  a  second  cry 
of  "hornets!"  plimged  headforemost  into  the 
bushes  and  crawled  away  under  the  brakes, 
thus  avoiding  both  the  hornets  and  the  necessity 
of  re-climbing  lost  ground.  The  bear-slayer's 
retreat  was  marked  by  repeated  howls  of  pain 
which  lent  further  speed  to  the  flying  heels  of 
the  rear-guard.  It  was  some  time  before  the 
ignominious  stampede  was  checked  and  a  fresh 
ascent  begun.  The  bear-slayer  had  been  stung 
in  three  places,  and  the  larger  satellite  declared 
he  had  saved  himself  from  a  sting  by  pulling 
the  hornet  off  his  back  with  his  fingers. 

Standing  among  the  young  trees  of  the  forest 
were  many  gray  stumps  of  ancient  origin,  — 


88  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

decayed  relics  of  forest  gentry  now  displaced 
by  the  democracy  of  poplars  and  birches. 
These  stumps  bore  no  axe  marks;  they  had 
fallen  at  the  command  of  the  tornado,  not  of 
the  limiber  thief.  On  their  sides  were  long 
scratches  which  looked  like  claw  marks.  Had 
"Sis  Wildcat"  been  trying  her  claws  there? 
No;  but  "Brer  Bar"  had  been.  Near  by  was 
a  small  grove  of  oaks,  not  one  of  which  was 
more  than  a  foot  in  diameter.  Their  sides 
were  deeply  scored  by  Bruin's  claws,  and  their 
highest  branches  hung  down  upon  the  rest  of 
their  limbs,  broken  and  dying.  There  is 
hardly  an  oak  on  Chocorua  which  has  not  been 
climbed  by  bears  in  acorn  time,  and  disfigured 
by  the  great  brutes  in  their  attempts  to  reach 
the  coveted  nuts. 

Towering  close  above  the  oaks  we  could  see 
the  abrupt  faces  of  the  West  Ledges.  We 
seemed  to  be  at  the  foot  of  a  great  feudal  castle 
whose  gray  walls  needed  scaling  ladders  to  be 
conquered.  Ferns  grew  in  the  crevices  in  the 
rock;  tiny  streams  of  water  trickled  down  its 
sides  and  fed  mosses  and  lichens;  honeysuckle, 
mountain  ash,  wild  Solomon's  seal,  and  striped 
maple  sprang  in  luxuriant  tangles  from  its  feet, 
and  tripped  us  as  we  skirted  the  castle's  base 
and  sought  a  break  in  its  smooth  walls.  Pres- 
ently we  found  one,  —  a  rift  made  originally  by 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  89 

ice,  but  long  since  widened  and  deepened  by 
other  erosive  forces.  Clinging  to  tree-trunks 
or  the  tough  stems  of  blueberry  bushes,  we 
pulled  ourselves  up  the  steep  ravine  and  reached 
the  top  of  the  first  ledge.  The  mountain  was 
still  xmconquered  before  us,  but  turning  we  saw, 
sunlit  and  smiling,  the  world  we  had  left. 
Curving,  undulating  forest;  warm  spots  of 
open  pasture ;  the  Hammond  farm,  from  which 
one  of  the  principal  paths  starts  up  Chocorua; 
my  own  red-roofed  cottage  with  squares  of  flax, 
millet,  corn,  and  buckwheat  giving  patchwork 
colors  to  its  clearing;  Chocorua  ponds  and  the 
cottages  on  Nickerson's  hill,  and  then  the 
wider  world  of  forest,  mountain,  river,  and 
lake,  —  Ossipee,  Sandwich  Dome,  Bearcamp, 
Winnepesaukee,  —  blended  beauties  whose 
names  awaken  pleasant  memories  and  whose 
picture  is  a  joy  to  look  upon,  — all  these  things 
we  saw,  and  much  more  which  we  only  half 
thought  about,  so  eager  were  we  to  go  on  with 
our  quest. 

Climbing  ledge  after  ledge,  wading  through 
thickets  of  mountain  ash,  dogwood,  low  spruce 
and  blueberry  bushes,  we  gained  at  last  the 
highest  open  point  on  West  Ridge.  On  three 
sides  the  land  fell  away  abruptly.  On  the 
north  the  ridge,  heavily  grown  with  stunted 
spruce  and  poplars,  continued  toward  the  peak. 


90     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

It  did  not  go  straight  towards  that  proud  rock, 
but  sought  it  by  bending  westward  and  then 
northward  in  a  great  bow.  The  peak,  conse- 
quently, stood  the  other  side  of  a  vast  hollow 
filled  with  tangled  forest.  It  was  near,  and  yet 
appeared  unattainable.  I  thought  of  the  winter 
day  when  I  had  climbed  to  this  point  over  four 
feet  of  packed  and  frozen  snow  and  seen  the 
Chocorua  horn,  crusted  with  ice  and  flanked 
by  mighty  snowdrifts,  hanging  in  the  bright  blue 
sky.  Then,  stimulated  by  the  keen  air,  I  had 
plunged  into  the  hollow,  crossed  it,  scaled  its 
farther  side  on  hands  and  knees,  gained  the  foot 
of  the  peak,  and  finally  won  its  slippery  summit, 
no  larger  than  my  dining  table ;  and  lying  there 
half  freezing,  had  seen  the  snow-covered  world 
from  Casco  Bay  to  the  Green  Mountains ;  Mo- 
nadnock  to  Dixville  Notch.  The  sun  of  August 
did  not  encourage  such  exploits,  and  a  dead  bear 
lying  hidden  near  us  drew  our  thoughts  away 
from  the  heights  to  the  damp  thicket  close 
below. 

The  bear-slayer  was  telling  his  story:  "I  was 
coming  along  here,  sort  of  softly,  thinking  it 
was  just  the  kind  of  place  for  a  bear,  when  just 
as  I  got  to  this  open  ledge  I  heard  a  hustling 
round  in  that  snarl  of  bushes.  I  stopped  short 
and  listened  and  peeped  in.  There  was  some- 
thing black  and  hairy  rubbing   round   in   the 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  91 

blueberry  bushes,  —  you  can  see  how  thick  the 
berries  are  in  there.  Well,  I  thought,  I  must  be 
careful ;  there  are  lots  of  folks  berrying,  and  I 
should  hate  to  put  one  of  these  pills  into  a  wo- 
man picking  blueberries.  It  would  settle  her 
right  off.  So  I  peeked  round,  till  I  was  dead 
sure  it  was  a  bear,  and  then  I  let  drive  —  at 
what  I  could  see.  The  ball  hit  him  in  his  side 
not  far  back  of  his  shoulder,  and  he  gave  an 
awful  roar  and  started  out  this  way.  I  climbed 
up  on  this  big  boulder,  five  feet  out  of  harm's 
way,  and  waited.  He  was  letting  out  roars  and 
then  drawing  awful  deep  breaths.  You  could 
hear  those  gasps  a  mile.  I  could  not  see  him, 
he  was  in  so  thick  in  the  bushes.  But  then  he 
began  to  drag  himself  off  towards  old  Coroway 
and  I  started  after  him.  I  heard  him  go  ker- 
chunk down  this  ledge,  and  then  I  caught  sight 
of  his  head  and  let  him  have  another,  and  a 
third  ball,  but  they  didn't  seem  to  stop  him  a 
bit,  just  glanced  off  his  skull,  I  s'pose.  Well, 
he  got  down  'most  a  hundred  feet  before  I  could 
get  a  sight  at  his  side  again,  but  when  I  did,  I 
put  one  in  where  it  stopped  his  gasping  and 
kicking." 

During  this  narrative  we  had  followed  the 
hunter  through  the  network  of  trees,  bushes, 
and  brambles,  tracing  the  track  made  by  the 
bear   in   his   agony.     Branches   were    broken. 


9i     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

leaves  crushed,  moss  stained,  and  rocks  torn 
up.  As  we  descended  the  north  slope  towards 
the  dark  ravine  which  the  bear  had  sought,  the 
Bunlight  grew  dim  and  the  air  cold.  Suddenly 
I  saw  the  bear.  At  the  foot  of  a  slippery  ledge, 
over  which  hung  dripping  wet  moss,  lying  upon 
a  deep  bed  of  sphagnum,  was  a  gaunt  black 
form.  Dead  and  still  as  it  was,  it  sent  a  thrill 
through  me.  I  seemed  to  see  the  being  for 
whom  this  wild  region  had  been  created.  The 
horn-blowing,  pistol-firing,  peanut-eating  tourist 
is  out  of  place  in  the  rugged  ravines  of  Choco- 
nia.  Even  the  bronzed,  gray-shirted  native 
with  his  magazine  rifle  is  not  in  tune  with  the 
solemn  music  of  this  wilderness.  But  in  the 
dead  creature  on  the  moss  I  saw  the  real  owner 
of  forest  and  ledge,  mountain  pool  and  hidden 
lake.  He  looked  weary  and  worn,  as  though 
life  had  been  full  of  hunger  and  terror.  The 
small,  keen,  wicked  eyes  were  closed ;  the  cruel 
teeth  were  locked  tight,  the  broad  feet  were  cut 
by  his  last  struggles  on  the  ledges,  and  his  thin 
hair,  showing  the  hide  below  it,  was  flecked 
with  blood  which  had  oozed  from  four  bullet 
wounds. 

We  five  men  gathered  around  the  dead  bear 
and  looked  at  him,  felt  of  him,  counted  his 
nails,  tried  to  open  his  set  jaws,  guessed  at  his 
weight,  discussed  his  character,  wondered  at  his 


BRINGING  HOME  THE  BEAR.  93 

ability  to  maintain  life  in  such  a  region,  and 
marveled  especially  at  the  nature  of  his  kind 
to  bring  forth  young  in  late  winter  and  to  rear 
them  in  the  chill  and  foodless  months  of  Feb- 
ruary and  March.  With  great  interest  we 
sought  through  his  capacious  stomach  to  see 
what  he  had  eaten,  and  found  quarts  of  ripe 
blueberries,  scarlet  cherries,  and  what  we  at 
first  took  to  be  grubs  dug  from  decaying 
stumps.  Closer  examination  showed  that  Bruin 
had  swallowed  the  whole  of  a  hornet's  nest,  for 
the  perfect  insects,  hundreds  of  their  undevel- 
oped young  in  the  brood-cells,  and  the  gray, 
papery  nest  were  all  recognized.  This  bear 
certainly  knew  how  to  pick  ripe  blueberries  and 
not  to  pick  green  ones.  I  saw  but  one  green 
berry  in  the  quarts  which  he  had  gathered. 

Drawing  the  bear's  fore  and  hind  feet  on 
each  side  together,  the  hunter  strapped  them 
firmly.  He  next  tied  the  head  to  the  feet,  so 
that  it  should  not  drag,  and  then  passed  two 
maple  poles  through  the  loops  made  by  the  two 
pairs  of  lashed  feet,  and  called  upon  the  larger 
satellite  and  the  Islander  to  shoulder  their  bur- 
den. They  did  so,  and  the  homeward  march 
began,  the  bearers  groaning.  Possibly  a  hun- 
dred yards  had  been  traversed  before  the  Is- 
lander tripped  and  fell,  pulling  the  bear  down 
upon  his  prostrate  form,  and  receiving  also  the 


94  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

weight  of  the  heavy  satellite.  The  hunter  took 
his  place  under  the  poles,  and  fifty  yards  more 
were  gained.  Then  the  hunter,  with  a  resound- 
ing exclamation,  flung  down  the  poles  and 
whipped  out  his  hunting-knife.  With  difficulty 
he  was  dissuaded  from  skinning  and  quartering 
Bruin  on  the  spot.  The  plan  which  induced 
him  to  stay  his  hand  was  suggested  by  one  of 
the  party  who  had  read  of  what  he  called  an 
"Indian  wagon."  Under  his  direction  two  long 
poles  were  cut  and  the  bear  was  lashed  on  top 
of  them  near  their  heavy  ends.  The  satellites 
then  stood  between  the  light  ends,  as  horses 
stand  between  the  shafts,  and  began  dragging 
the  bear  down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain. 
They  had  not  gone  fifty  feet  before  the  weight 
of  the  bear  turned  the  poles  over  and  left  the 
satellites  sprawling  in  the  bushes.  Once  more 
knives  were  drawn  and  skinning  threatened. 

The  next  proposal  was  to  wrap  Bruin  in  grain 
bags  so  as  to  protect  his  skin,  and  then  to  drag 
and  roll  him  down  to  where  traveling  would  be 
easier.  The  bear  slayer  consented  to  try  this 
experiment,  and  two  large  shorts  bags  were  drawn 
over  the  body,  one  from  its  head,  the  other  from 
its  tail.  Other  bags  were  laid  under  the  body, 
and,  thus  protected,  it  was  dragged,  bumping 
and  rolling,  down  several  hundred  yards  to  the 
foot  of  the  ledges.     Short  cross-sticks  were  then 


BRINGING   HOME   THE  BEAR.  95 

inserted  in  the  lashings,  which  were  tied  round 
the  bear's  legs,  and  four  of  us,  two  on  each  side, 
or  two  in  front  and  two  behind,  raised  the  body 
by  these  sticks  and  bore  it  through  the  winding 
path  we  had  cleared  while  ascending.  The 
lesser  satellite,  carrying  the  rifle,  hatchet,  and 
other  luggage,  brought  up  the  rear,  and  urged 
on  the  party  by  jeering  remarks  and  snatches  of 
song.  In  spite  of  repeated  cautions  from  the 
bear-slayer,  whose  stings  still  smarted,  we  nar- 
rowly escaped  walking  into  the  hornet's  nest  a 
second  time. 

More  than  six  hours  had  elapsed  since  our 
departure  from  home  when  our  little  procession 
wound  out  of  the  woods  into  my  dooryard. 
Raspberry  vinegar  never  was  more  gratefully 
swallowed,  and  never  was  dead  emperor  received 
with  more  respect  than  poor  Bruin  by  the 
crowds  which  flocked  to  view  his  remains  dur- 
ing the  afternoon  of  that  hot  August  day.  One 
bought  his  nails,  another  his  teeth,  a  third  his 
thinly  haired  skin,  while  pieces  of  his  flesh, 
prepared  for  future  cooking,  were  carried  away 
in  various  directions.  As  when  sugar  is  spilled 
upon  the  ground,  ants  come  from  every  quarter 
to  gather  up  the  grains  and  draw  them  away, 
so  dead  Bruin  drew  gossips  and  idlers  from  all 
parts  of  the  town,  eager  to  pick  up  bits  of  his 
body  or  stories  of  his  melancholy  end. 


THE   DEAD  TREE'S   DAY. 

It  is  the  theory  that  there  are  always  plenty 
of  hens  to  be  bought  in  a  New  England  farming 
town;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  month 
of  July,  1892,  the  country  north  of  Bearcamp 
presented  such  a  dearth  of  hens  that,  after 
traveling  miles  in  my  efforts  to  buy  some,  I  re- 
turned to  my  own  neighborhood  and  hired  a 
contingent  for  the  season.  The  transaction 
was  unique,  but,  on  the  whole,  mutually  satis- 
factory. It  had  one  drawback.  When  one 
owns  fowls,  the  accumulation  of  family  wrath 
against  the  rooster  on  account  of  too  early  crow- 
ing on  his  part  always  finds  relief  in  eating 
him;  but  when  one  hires  a  rooster,  his  life  is 
charmed  by  contract,  and  he  can  with  impu- 
nity crow  the  family  into  nervous  prostration. 
The  magnificent  Black  Spanish  cock  hired  by 
me  began  crowing,  on  the  morning  of  August 
21,  at  twenty  minutes  of  four.  Not  a  ray  of 
daylight  pierced  the  bank  of  mist  which  filled 
the  east.  Nothing  but  instinct  or  a  bad  con- 
science could  have  told  Murillo  that  it  was  time 
to  crow.     Nevertheless,    on   this  occasion   his 


THE  DEAD  TREE'S  DAT.  97 

song  was  welcome,  for  I  had  counted  upon  his 
arousing  me  early  in  order  that  I  might  spend 
an  entire  day  with  the  Dead  Tree. 

On  the  northern  shore  of  Chocorua  Lake  a 
broad  reach  of  swampy  woodland  is  broken  by 
a  meadow.  At  the  point  where  the  small  and 
very  cool  brook  which  bounds  the  meadow  on 
the  west  enters  the  lake,  a  tall  pine  once  cast 
its  shadow  upon  a  deep  pool  at  its  foot.  The 
pine  died  many  years  ago,  and  its  bark  has 
been  entirely  removed  by  weather  and  wood- 
peckers, leaving  its  trunk  and  eighty-seven 
branches,  or  stumps  of  branches,  as  white  as 
bleached  bones.  A  few  rods  farther  from  the 
mouth  of  the  brook  stands  a  smaller  pine  of 
similar  character.  These  two  trees  form  a 
famous  bird  roost,  and  at  their  feet  I  planned 
to  stay  from  sunrise  to  sunset  on  this  August 
day,  in  order  to  see,  during  consecutive  hours, 
how  many  birds  would  make  use  of  the  tree  as 
a  perch.  From  frequent  visits  during  this  and 
earlier  years,  I  knew  that  the  tree  was  not  only 
a  rendezvous  for  the  birds  living  in  the  meadow 
and  adjoining  woods,  but  also  a  kursaal  for 
tourists  in  feathers,  and  for  all  birds  coming  to 
the  lake  to  hunt  or  to  fish. 

As  I  left  the  house,  hermit  thrushes  were 
uttering  the  short  complaining  notes  of  alarm 
characteristic  of  them  at  twilight.     Dark  as  it 


98  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

was,  they  were  awake  and  stirring.  Reaching 
the  bank  of  the  lake  a  minute  or  two  after  four, 
I  startled  a  spotted  sandpiper  from  the  beach, 
and  heard  his  peeping  whistle  as  he  flew  from 
me  across  the  black  water,  beyond  which  only 
dusky  masses  of  gloom  marked  the  pine  woods 
on  the  farther  shore.  The  surface  of  the  water 
was  disturbed  by  thousands  of  insects  cutting 
queer  figures  upon  it.  Where  they  moved, 
white  ripples  followed.  As  I  walked  along  the 
moist  sand  of  the  beach,  pickerel  shot  out  from 
the  shore,  bats  squeaked,  and  frogs  jumped  into 
deeper  water  with  nervous  croaks  of  fear. 
Then  a  whippoorwill  sang,  and  as  his  weird 
notes  echoed  from  the  woods,  Venus  sailed  clear 
from  the  mist  bank  and  reflected  her  dazzling 
beauty  in  the  lake.  As  I  drew  near  the  mouth 
of  the  brook,  a  solitary  tattler  ran  along  the 
sand  in  front  of  me,  whistling  softly.  When  I 
turned  into  the  bushes,  he  stopped  and  resumed 
his  search  for  breakfast. 

The  dead  tree  rose  above  me,  jet  black 
against  the  dark  sky.  Stepping  softly  through 
the  bushes,  I  disturbed  the  wary  catbirds,  and 
their  fretful  cries  awoke  the  meadow.  At 
twenty  minutes  past  four,  three  whippoorwills 
were  singing,  and  two  catbirds,  with  several 
hermit  thrushes,  were  complaining.  A  few  mo- 
ments later,  the  call  of  a  veery  was  heard,  a 


THK    DEAD    TREE 


THE  DEAD  TREE'S  DAT.  99 

song  sparrow  gave  a  sharp  squeak,  and  then, 
so  still  was  the  air,  I  heard  the  heavy  stamping 
of  my  horse  in  his  stable,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  as  he  gained  his  feet  after  a  long  night's 
rest.  The  stars  were  growing  paler  moment 
by  moment,  and  outlines  becoming  sharper  in 
the  bushes  and  trees  near  me.  A  Swainson's 
thrush  uttered  its  clear  "g-wic^,"  expressive  of 
much  more  vigilance  than  the  cries  of  the  veery 
and  the  hermit,  yet  less  fault-finding  than  the 
mew  of  the  catbird. 

I  settled  myself  comfortably  amid  the  bushes 
eastward  of  the  dead  trees,  near  enough  to  them 
to  see  even  a  humming-bird  if  one  alighted  on 
the  bare  branches.  At  4.35  I  had  heard  eight 
kinds  of  birds,  yet  the  crows,  notorious  for 
early  rising,  had  not  spoken.  A  minute  later 
one  cawed  sleepily  among  the  eastern  pines 
where  the  mist  lay  thickest,  and  soon  a  dozen 
voices  responded.  Dense  as  was  the  fog,  the 
light  of  day  made  swift  inroads  upon  the  shad- 
ows, and  when,  about  quarter  to  five,  a  young 
chestnut-sided  warbler  came  out  of  a  dewy  bush 
near  me,  its  colors  were  plainly  distinguishable. 
The  little  bird  looked  sleepy  and  dull.  It 
moved  languidly,  and  so  did  three  Maryland 
yellow-throats  which  appeared  from  the  same 
clump  of  thick  bushes  a  moment  later.  As  yet 
no  bird  of  the  day  had  sung. 


100  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Far  away  in  the  swampy  woods  to  the  north 
a  big  red-shouldered  hawk  cried  "%-e,  hy-e^ 
hy-e."  I  remembered  the  morning,  just  a  year 
previous,  when,  sitting  in  about  the  same  spot, 
with  Puffy  perched  on  a  dead  limb  over  my 
head,  a  red-shouldered  hawk  had  flown  with 
stately  wing-beat  to  one  of  the  lower  branches 
of  the  dead  tree,  and  then,  suddenly  discovering 
the  owl,  had  thrust  its  head  forward,  opened 
wide  its  beak,  and,  with  its  fierce  eyes  glaring, 
had  shrieked  its  hatred  at  the  almost  unmoved 
owl.  This  morning  it  did  not  visit  the  meadow, 
probably  finding  its  humble  game  nearer  home. 

The  first  bird  to  appear  flying  above  the  level 
of  the  meadow  was  a  graceful  night-hawk. 
Perhaps  he  had  just  come  down  from  a  night's 
revel  in  the  cool  air  over  Chocorua's  summit. 
I  wondered  whether  he  had  been  one  of  a  com- 
pany of  between  two  and  three  hundred  of  his 
tribe  which  deployed  across  the  sky  on  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  19th,  just  in  advance  of  a  violent 
thunderstorm.  Yearly,  about  the  20th  of  Au- 
gust, the  night-hawks  muster  their  forces  and 
parade  during  one  or  two  afternoons.  Yet 
there  seems  to  be  no  diminution  in  the  number 
of  the  local  birds  after  the  army  disappears. 
Perhaps  it  is  formed  of  migrants  from  the 
north ;  or  perhaps  the  display  is,  after  all,  only 
a  drill,  preparatory  to  a  later  flight. 


THE  DEAD  TREE'S  DAT.  101 

The  Maryland  yellow-throats,  in  moving 
about  the  bushes,  discovered  me,  and  began 
scolding  at  my  intrusion.  They  came  so  near 
to  me  that  they  seemed  within  reach  of  my 
hands.  I  kept  perfectly  still,  and  half  closed 
my  eyes.  Their  inspection  seemed  to  convince 
them  that  I  was  harmless,  for  they  went  away, 
and  presently  the  male  sang  his  ''''rig-a-jig^  rig" 
a-jig^  rig-a-jig,^^  close  behind  me.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  closing  the  eyes  does  a  great  deal 
to  reassure  a  timid  bird.  Owls  entirely  cloak 
their  evil  appearance  by  simply  drawing  their 
eyelids  down,  and  closing  their  feathers  tightly 
about  them.  On  discovering  a  man,  birds 
watch,  not  his  legs  or  his  body,  but  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  are  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  his 
face  and  fullest  of  menace.  I  have  sometimes 
fancied  that  nervous  birds  knew  when  they  were 
watched,  even  though  they  could  not  see  the 
observer. 

At  4.48  a  kingbird  came  sailing  and  fluttering 
over  the  meadow,  its  chattering  cries  giving 
ample  warning  of  its  approach.  It  lighted  in 
the  big  tree,  and  scanned  sky,  water,  and  grass, 
searching  for  something  with  which  to  quarrel, 
A  flicker  passed  silently,  coming,  as  the  king- 
bird had,  from  the  woods,  and  going  to  a  tree 
near  the  lake  shore.  Small  birds,  possibly  war- 
blers, flew  by,  westward.     A  blue  jay  screamed 


102    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEAJiCAMP  WATER. 

harshly  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  the  fog, 
which  was  growing  more  and  more  dense  upon 
the  meadow,  discouraged  its  coming  to  the  dead 
trees.  Just  at  five  o'clock  a  goldfinch  undulated 
past,  and  the  noisy  rattle  of  a  kingfisher  echoed 
along  the  edge  of  the  pond,  provoking  answers 
from  a  red  squirrel,  whose  chatter  seemed  an 
imitation  of  the  call,  and  from  a  crow,  whose 
mimicry  of  the  fisher's  rattle  was  remarkably 
good.  Probably  all  bird-calls  originated  in  the 
efforts  of  their  makers  to  reproduce  sounds  which 
pleased  or  startled  them.  In  this  case,  Chickaree 
and  Corvus  had  no  sober  motive  for  replying  to 
the  kingfisher;  they  may  neither  of  them  have 
associated  the  rattle  with  the  blue  projectile 
which  made  it.  Both  were  entertained  or  at- 
tracted by  the  sound,  and  each  in  its  way  tried 
to  reproduce  it.  It  is  by  a  similar  process, 
doubtless,  that  parrots,  crows,  and  blue  jays 
acquire  the  power  of  producing  sounds  which 
correspond  to  our  words.  Later,  they  may  gain, 
through  experience,  a  knowledge  of  the  meaning 
or  force  of  such  words,  but  often  no  such  know- 
ledge lies  behind  the  empty  iteration  of  the 
parrot. 

For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  seemed 
to  be  a  lull  in  the  process  of  bird-awakening. 
The  Maryland  yellow -throats  were  moving,  and 
now  and  then  the  male  sang  a  little.     Crows 


TEE  DEAD  TREE'S  DAY.  103 

called  in  the  distance,  and  the  catbirds  moved 
restlessly  about  from  one  part  of  the  meadow 
to  another,  mewing,  but  nothing  new  appeared 
under  the  fog  mantle.  The  spell  was  broken 
by  the  appearance  of  one  of  the  small  tyrant 
flycatchers,  which  are  so  difficult  to  identify 
during  the  migrations  unless  they  are  killed  and 
closely  examined.  This  one  seemed  to  me  to  be 
a  least  flycatcher  {Empidonax  minimus),  there 
being  ahnost  no  trace  of  yellow  in  his  coloring, 
lie  flew  from  point  to  point,  in  or  just  over  the 
bushes,  catching  small  insects  with  vicious  snaps 
of  his  beak.  Apparently  it  was  necessary,  for 
the  proper  working  of  his  machinery,  to  have 
his  tail  jerk  spitefully  several  times  a  minute. 

About  half  past  five  three  crows  came  to  the 
big  tree.  One  of  them  sailed  softly  by,  but  the 
other  two  alighted  and  began  cawing  in  a  fret- 
ful way.  They  were  bedraggled  with  fog  and 
dew,  and  their  tones  told  of  hunger  and  discom- 
fort. When  they  spoke,  they  thrust  their  heads 
far  forward,  giving  them  a  low,  mean  air.  They 
pulled  viciously  at  their  moist  clothing,  all  the 
while  keeping  the  keenest  watch  of  their  sur- 
roundings and  the  distance.  Suddenly  one  of 
them  saw  me,  and  with  a  low  croak  flew  away, 
his  mate  following.  Again  silence  and  fog  pre- 
vailed. A  cedar-bird,  alighting  on  the  tip  of 
the  old  tree,  seemed  to  shiver.     He  remained 


104   AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

in  the  dim  upper  air  but  a  moment,  taking  a 
headlong  plunge  into  the  shrubbery  below.  I 
thought  even  the  frogs  resented  the  slow -mov- 
ing vapors,  for  they  croaked  and  splashed  rest- 
lessly. 

A  red-eyed  vireo  began  his  sermon  at  6.10, 
and  soon  after,  blue  sky  and  scattering  rays 
of  sunlight  appeared.  Then  the  birds  became 
more  cheerful,  and  catbirds,  crows,  kingbirds, 
Maryland  yellow  -  throats,  and  song  sparrows 
vied  with  each  other  in  activity  and  noise. 
Every  one  of  them  was  intent  upon  making 
a  good  breakfast.  The  catbirds  ate  viburnum 
berries ;  the  crows  marched  upon  the  lake  sand, 
searching  for  the  waste  of  the  waves;  a  barn 
swallow,  the  kingbirds,  and  several  smaller  fl}^- 
catchers  hovered  or  darted  in  pursuit  of  insects, 
and  the  sparrows  gathered  their  harvest  from 
the  earth.  Then  a  flicker  appeared  in  the  top 
of  the  old  tree,  and,  finding  a  resonant  spot  in 
the  trunk,  beat  his  reveille  softly  upon  it.  My 
neck  fairly  ached  when  I  tried  to  imagine  the 
mental  and  muscular  effort  required  of  the  bird 
to  produce  such  regular  and  rapid  action  with 
his  beak.  The  only  way  in  which  a  man  can 
make  as  many  beats  to  the  minute  with  any 
regularity  is  by  allowing  his  hand  to  rest  in  such 
a  position  that  it  will  tremble.  Then,  by  grasp- 
ing a  pencil  and  resting  its  tip  upon  a  board,  a 


THE  DEAD   TREE'S  DAT.  105 

sound  somewhat  similax  to  the  rolling  rever- 
beration of  the  woodpecker's  drumming  can  be 
produced. 

At  half  past  six  an  olive -sided  flycatcher 
came  to  the  pine,  but  on  seeing  the  kingbird  dis- 
appeared. A  moment  later  the  kingbird  flew 
away,  and  the  olive-sided  at  once  returned  to 
the  highest  branch  of  the  tree,  and  made  it  his 
point  of  rest  during  a  long  series  of  sallies  after 
insects.  When  he  caught  one  of  large  size,  he 
brought  it  back  to  his  perch,  and  poimded  it 
violently  against  the  branch  until  its  struggles 
ceased,  and  its  harder  portions  were,  presimia- 
bly,  reduced  to  a  jelly.  The  kingbirds  really 
have  more  right  than  any  of  the  migrants  to  use 
the  old  tree,  for  they  have  built,  year  after  year, 
time  out  of  mind,  in  the  spreading  branches  of 
the  nearest  living  pine  overhanging  the  lake. 
As  August  advances,  however,  they  wander  a 
good  deal,  paying  visits  to  my  orchard  and  other 
good  feeding-grounds  near  the  lake.  While 
they  are  away,  wood  pewees  and  phoebes,  olive- 
sided  and  least  flycatchers,  visit  the  vicinity,  and 
enjoy  the  great  tree  and  the  fine  chances  which 
it  offers  of  seeing  insects  over  both  land  and 
water.  About  quarter  to  seven  a  solitary  sand- 
piper flew  swiftly  over  the  meadow,  calling.  It 
made  two  great  circles,  rising  above  the  trees, 
and  then  flew  westward  so  fast  that  I  looked  to 


106  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

discover  a  pursuer,  but  could  discern  none.  In 
the  high  woods,  over  which  it  flew,  the  crows 
were  chortling.  Northward  the  peak  was  clear, 
although  below  it  a  long  scarf  of  mist  trailed 
over  the  forest,  moving  westward.  In  the  tree- 
top  the  flicker  "flickered,"  and  then  drummed; 
called  again,  and  drummed  more  emphatically. 
Soon  a  second  woodpecker  appeared,  but  flew 
by  into  the  woods.  The  first  one  watched  him, 
and  then  drummed  again,  whereupon  the  new- 
comer flew  to  him,  and  an  animated  dialogue 
took  place,  the  second  bird  apparently  having 
much  to  say  in  an  excited  manner.  After  they 
had  finished  their  conference,  the  second  bird 
flew  away,  and  the  first  relapsed  into  a  reverie. 
It  lasted  only  a  few  moments,  for  shortly  before 
seven  o'clock  two  crows  flew  into  the  two  dead 
trees,  and  the  woodpecker  hurried  away.  Each 
crow  took  the  topmost  perch  on  his  tree,  and 
began  his  toilet.  Just  then  a  frog  jumped  with 
a  splash  into  the  pool  in  front  ot  me,  and  the 
crows,  hearing  the  noise,  looked  searchingly 
down,  saw  me,  and  flew  off  without  a  caw. 

For  several  years  the  morning  of  the  21st  of 
August  has  been  my  time  for  first  seeing  Wil- 
son's blackcap  warblers  on  their  autumn  jour- 
ney southward.  Having  been  in  the  swamp 
three  hours  without  seeing  one,  I  began  to 
think  that,  1892  being  leap  year,  the  pretty 


THE  DEAD   TREE'S  DAT.  107 

migrants  might  not  keep  their  tryst;  but  I 
wronged  them,  for  just  at  seven  o'clock  I  heard 
a  sharp  "cAeep"  behind  me,  and,  turning  slowly, 
found  a  blackcap  gazing  at  me  nervously.  No 
sooner  had  my  eyes  met  his  than  he  darted  away. 

Between  seven  and  eight  the  trees  were  oc- 
cupied by  a  flock  of  twelve  cedar-birds,  one  or 
two  flickers,  several  young  robins,  a  pewee,  a 
humming-bird,  and  some  of  the  small  flycatch- 
ers. The  humming-bird  is  a  tyrannical  and 
blustering  little  bird,  giving  himself  many  airs. 
His  wife  is  quite  as  much  of  a  virago  as  he  is 
of  a  bully.  In  this  instance  she  was  determined 
to  drive  away  the  flycatchers.  Sitting  in  the 
big  tree,  and  looking  smaller  than  a  well-fed 
dragonfly,  she  darted,  every  now  and  then,  at 
one  of  the  chebecs,  and  put  him  to  flight.  They 
tired  her  out,  however,  and  after  a  while  she 
gave  up  the  struggle  and  departed.  About 
7.30  a  flock  of  small  birds,  including  several 
chickadees,  appeared  in  the  edge  of  the  woods 
and  scattered  over  the  meadow.  Few  of  them 
came  near  enough  to  me  for  identification,  but 
there  seemed  to  be  vireos  and  warblers  among 
them.  Their  coming  aroused  other  birds,  and 
a  goldfinch,  a  catbird  chasing  a  veery,  one  or 
two  Maryland  yellow-throats,  and  a  swift  were 
in  sight  at  one  time. 

Thirst  overtook  me  at  eight,  after  four  hours 


108  AT  THE  NORTH   OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

of  watching,  and  I  crept  softly  down  to  the 
brook.  Before  I  had  gone  a  dozen  steps,  a  huge 
bird  sprang  from  the  sedgy  growth  by  the  lake 
shore  and  rose  into  the  air.  It  was  a  blue 
heron  which  had  been  patrolling  the  sand  within 
forty  feet  of  me.  He  flew  along  the  shore  for 
some  distance,  then  rose  and  passed  over  the 
trees  towards  the  north,  seeking,  no  doubt,  my 
lonely  lake,  half  a  mile  away  in  the  forest. 
One  morning,  when  hidden  in  the  alders  and 
viburnums  which  grow  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
big  tree,  I  heard  a  queer  guttural  call  or  grunt 
from  the  meadow,  and  the  next  moment  the 
heron  stood  above  me,  on  the  lowest  limb  of  the 
pine.  He  looked  sharply  over  the  meadow  and 
the  lake,  stretched  first  one  leg,  then  the  other, 
then  each  wing  in  turn,  and  finally  fell  to  preen- 
ing his  blue  and  gray  plumes.  Against  a  pale 
blue  sky  or  ruffled  water  which  mingles  blue 
and  gray  with  bits  of  white,  he  is  marvelously 
well  protected  by  his  coloring.  No  wonder  that 
the  poor  frogs  fall  a  prey  to  his  patient  spear- 
ing. I  kept  breathlessly  still,  and  watched  this 
largest  of  our  Chocorua  birds.  It  seemed  odd 
that  the  old  tree  should  be  a  perch  for  him  and 
for  the  humming-bird.  The  hummer  is  three 
and  a  quarter  inches  long;  the  heron  spreads 
six  feet  with  his  great  wings  when  he  flies,  and 
measures  over  four  feet  when  standing.     After 


THE  DEAD   TREE'S  DAY.  109 

a  while  I  grew  weary  of  watching  the  heron,  and 
of  wondering  at  his  macaroni-like  legs  and  his 
strangely  concentrated  stare,  which  now  and 
then  fixed  itself  on  my  hiding-place,  so  I  whis- 
tled softly.  The  heron  paused  in  his  feather- 
combing  and  looked  towards  me.  There  was  no 
fear  in  his  glance,  only  mild  interest.  I  sang, 
first  sad  music,  then  "Nancy  Lee,"  "Pinafore," 
"Hold  the  Fort,"  everything  I  could  think  of, 
in  fact,  which  might  prompt  him  to  action ;  but 
he  only  stared,  now  over  his  beak,  then  under 
it.  The  latter  method  of  ogling  was  very  effec- 
tive, for  the  long  bill  was  contemplating  the 
skies,  while  the  cold,  calculating  eyes  stood  out 
each  side  of  its  base  and  glared  down  across  it 
until  I  seemed  to  feel  their  clamminess.  From 
music  I  turned  to  animal  language,  and  barked, 
mewed,  mooed,  brayed,  whinnied,  quacked, 
crowed,  cackled,  peeped,  hooted,  and  cawed, 
until  my  throat  was  raw.  He  was  clearly  en- 
tertained, and  showed  no  desire  to  leave  me. 
At  last  I  came  down  to  plain  English,  suppos-. 
ing  that  my  voice  tmdisguised  by  song  would 
certainly  alarm  him,  but  to  my  great  surprise 
he  apparently  did  not  associate  the  human  voice 
with  its  owner  in  the  slightest  degree.  In  fact, 
he  now  seemed  bored  by  my  noise,  and  went  on 
with  his  preening.  Suddenly,  in  moving  my 
foot,  I  snapped  a  small  twig.     Before   there 


110     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

seemed  to  have  been  time  for  the  sound  to  reach 
his  brain,  the  heron  was  on  the  wing,  and  I  saw 
him  no  more  that  day. 

At  8.30,  as  I  was  watching  the  big  tree,  a 
large,  light-colored  bird  passed  close  to  its  trunk 
and  plunged  downward  towards  the  deep  pool 
at  its  foot.  The  sound  of  splashing  water  was 
followed  by  utter  silence.  After  remaining  mo- 
tionless for  several  minutes  I  crawled  carefully 
towards  the  bank  of  the  brook.  The  bushes 
were  thick,  and  small  dry  twigs  covered  the 
ground.  Their  snapping  could  not  be  avoided, 
and  just  before  I  reached  a  point  where  I  could 
see  the  water  and  the  narrow  strip  of  muddy 
beach,  a  heavy  bird  rose  with  a  great  beating 
of  wings  and  flew  up-stream.  I  broke  through 
the  cover,  headlong,  but  the  bird  was  out  of 
sight.  The  surface  of  the  stream  was  covered 
with  small,  soft  feathers,  which  I  gathered  to- 
gether and  dried.  They  appeared  to  be  from 
the  breast  of  a  sandpiper.  Who  the  murderer 
was  will  never  be  known,  though  1  presume  that 
it  was  a  Cooper's  hawk. 

My  glimpse  of  this  hawk,  if  such  it  was,  re- 
minded me  of  an  encounter  between  a  sharp- 
shinned  hawk  and  a  flock  of  blue  jays  which  I 
had  seen  at  the  tree  the  week  previous.  The 
hawk  arrived  when  several  flickers  were  in  the 
tree  and  hurled  himself  upon  them.     They  fled, 


THE  DEAD   TREE'S  DAY.  Ill 

calling  wildly,  and  brought  to  their  aid,  first  a 
kingbird,  which  promptly  attacked  the  hawk 
from  above,  and  then  a  flock  of  blue  jays,  which 
abused  him  from  cover  below.  When  the  king- 
bird flew  away,  as  he  did  after  driving  the 
hawk  into  the  bushes  for  a  few  moments,  the 
jays  grew  more  and  more  daring  in  approaching 
the  hawk.  In  fact  they  set  themselves  to  the 
task  of  tiring  him  out  and  making  him  ridicu- 
lous. They  ran  great  risks  in  doing  it,  fre- 
quently flying  almost  into  the  hawk's  face;  but 
they  persevered,  in  spite  of  his  ferocious  at- 
tempts to  strike  them.  After  nearly  an  hour 
the  hawk  grew  weary  and  edged  off  to  the  woods. 
Then  the  jays  went  up  the  tree  as  though  it 
were  a  circular  staircase,  and  yelled  the  news 
of  the  victory  to  the  swamp. 

As  the  forenoon  passed  slowly  by,  there  were 
periods  when  the  tree  was  empty  for  ten  min- 
utes or  more  at  a  time,  but  generally  a  flicker, 
cedar-bird,  olive-sided  flycatcher,  blue  jay, 
crow,  or  catbird  was  to  be  seen  perched  in 
some  part  of  the  great  skeleton.  At  ten  o'clock 
I  shifted  my  place  to  avoid  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
and  to  keep  its  light  behind  me.  My  new  seat 
was  in  the  heart  of  a  tangle  of  bushes,  and  as 
I  looked  through  the  network  of  their  stems  I 
suddenly  saw  a  bird's  head,  motionless.  My 
glass  aided  me  in  recognizing  the  little  creature 


112    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

as  a  red-eyed  vireo  sitting  upon  a  twig.  Close 
by  it  was  a  second  vireo  also  perfectly  passive. 
I  watched  them  for  a  long  time,  and  could  see 
nothing  but  their  eyes  move.  It  is  such  moods 
as  this,  taking  possession  of  birds,  which  make 
some  parts  of  the  day  silent,  and  cause  the 
woods  to  seem  deserted  by  all  their  feathered 
tenants.  Another  occupant  of  the  thicket  was 
a  yellow-bellied  flycatcher,  whose  activity  in  the 
pursuit  of  small  insects  was  tireless.  He  cer- 
tainly found  enough  to  eat,  for  small  insects 
have  been  unusually  abundant  this  summer, 
while  birds  have  been  noticeably  scarce  near 
Chocorua.  Some  species,  usually  well  repre- 
sented, have  seemingly  vanished,  and  others, 
quite  niunerous  in  average  years,  have  been 
very  sparingly  represented.  For  instance,  the 
summer  has  passed  without  my  seeing  either  an 
oriole  or  a  winter  wren,  while  redstarts  and 
chestnut-sided  warblers,  usually  among  the 
most  numerous  species,  have  been  represented 
by  a  mere  handful  of  birds.  The  supposed  local 
causes  of  this  dearth  of  small  birds  are  a  heavy 
snowfall,  which  occurred  the  last  week  in  May, 
and  a  hailstorm,  which  did  great  damage  just 
in  the  middle  of  the  nesting  period.  Unusual 
numbers  of  birds  are  said  to  have  been  killed 
by  spring  storms  in  the  Gulf  States  before  the 
year's  migration  really  began. 


THE  DEAD  TREE'S  DAT.  113 

At  eleven  o'clock  a  flock  of  small  birds  moved 
rapidly  across  the  meadow,  and  four  of  the  num- 
ber passed  through  my  covert.  They  were  a 
chickadee  and  three  Wilson's  blackcaps.  I 
wish  the  latter  bird  lived  here  in  the  breeding 
season,  for  it  is  a  pretty,  confiding,  gentle  little 
creature.  The  departure  of  these  birds  was  has- 
tened by  the  appearance  on  the  lake  shore  of  a 
young  man,  a  boy,  and  a  dog.  The  man  car- 
ried a  gun,  and  the  dog  rushed  about  in  an  ex- 
cited way,  doing  his  best  in  cur  fashion  to  aid 
in  the  hunt.  When  the  trio  reached  the  brook 
at  the  point  where  it  debouched  upon  the  lake 
sand,  the  man  cursed  the  stream  for  its  width, 
and  the  boy,  in  a  loud  nasal  voice,  followed  his 
example.  They  stood  upon  the  farther  side  for 
several  minutes  pouring  out  blasphemy  and  filth 
until  a  sandpiper  attracted  their  attention  and 
their  gun  spoke  sharply.  The  bird  escaped, 
perhaps  to  die  in  the  meadow  grass,  and  again 
the  two  intelligent  human  beings  invoked  wrath 
upon  the  bird,  the  stream,  the  meadow,  the  dog, 
and  the  gun.  Then  they  crossed  the  brook 
higher  up,  where  it  was  narrower,  and  distance 
covered  their  conversation  with  a  welcome  veil. 
As  long  as  the  pleasant  memories  of  that  quiet 
day  linger  in  my  mind,  so  long  will  there  be 
drawn  through  them  a  black  line  of  disgust  at 
the  vileness  of  the  two  representatives  of  my 


114    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

own  species  who  offered  such  a  contrast  to  the 
purity  of  nature. 

From  eleven  until  one  o'clock  there  was  almost 
unbroken  stillness  near  the  great  tree.  Now 
and  then  some  one  of  the  regular  residents  of 
the  meadow  spoke,  a  dragonfly  buzzed  past,  a 
small  pickerel  stirred  in  the  brook,  or  a  frog 
said  '"''wurro^  wurrouh,^''  and  splashed  in  the  still 
water  among  the  reeds.  The  kingbirds  broke 
the  monotony  by  coming,  three  strong,  with 
much  noise  and  fluttering  to  take  possession  of 
the  tree.  One  of  them  flew  to  the  sand  by  the 
lake  ripples  and  drank.  Then  all  three  came 
upon  the  lowest  branches  of  the  big  tree  and 
looked  at  the  dark  pool  below.  One  flew 
obliquely  against  tlie  water,  striking  it  and 
dashing  a  thousand  bright  drops  into  the  air. 
He  rose  chattering  and  returned  to  his  perch, 
shaking  himself.  I  thought  he  had  aimed  for  a 
fly  and  struck  the  water  unintentionally,  but 
down  he  went  again,  making  even  more  of  a 
splash  than  before,  and  presently  both  the  oth- 
ers followed  his  example  at  such  frequent  inter- 
vals that  the  pool  had  no  time  to  smooth  its 
ripples.  This  odd  kind  of  bathing  was  contin- 
ued for  ten  minutes,  during  which  time  a  cat- 
bird sneaked  down  upon  the  sand  and  watched 
the  process  silently  but  with  evident  interest. 
Later  he  saw  me  sitting  motionless  under  the 


THE  DEAD    TREE'S  DAT.  116 

bushes,  and  flew  directly  at  me,  turning  sharply 
just  before  reaching  my  head,  and  making  a 
loud  noise  both  by  striking  his  wings  against 
branches  and  by  his  harsh  voice.  If  his  pur- 
pose was  to  startle  me  he  certainly  succeeded. 

The  afternoon  was  clear,  still,  and  warm,  and 
the  birds  were  evidently  drowsy.  From  two 
until  after  four  nothing  perched  in  the  tree.  A 
sandpiper  amused  me  by  his  patient  search  for 
food,  as  he  waded  back  and  forth  on  the  mud 
over  which  the  brook  spread  as  it  entered  the 
lake.  For  an  hour  he  confined  himself  to  a 
space  less  than  six  feet  square  and  worked  over 
almost  every  inch  of  it.  Much  of  the  time  he 
merely  prodded  the  mud  gently  with  his  long, 
quill-like  bill,  but  occasionally  he  seemed  to  see 
something  squirm,  and  then  he  pursued  it 
quickly  and  stabbed  more  vigorously.  Much 
of  the  time  the  water  was  above  his  knees,  and 
sometimes  he  ran  into  deeper  places,  so  that  it 
lapped  upon  his  breast.  Twice  he  plunged  his 
head  and  neck  entirely  under  water,  but  his 
eyes  seemed  to  need  no  wiping  when  they 
emerged  as  wide  open  as  before.  Sometimes  he 
crossed  his  legs  and  stood  like  a  camp-stool, 
with  his  thin  props  meeting  their  equally  straw- 
like  reflections  in  the  brook.  After  a  while  a 
second  sandpiper  appeared,  but  his  method  was 
to  travel  rapidly  along  the  water  line,  and  he 
was  soon  out  of  sight. 


116  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  six  o'clock  that  the 
tree  became  really  populous  again.  Then  the 
catbirds  went  upstairs  on  its  branches,  flickers 
and  kingbirds  occupied  its  top ;  a  humming-bird 
buzzed  in  the  face  of  a  pewee  who  was  perched 
f uUy  thirty  feet  from  the  ground ;  a  sapsucking 
woodpecker  came  and  drummed  for  a  moment, 
and  finally  a  flock  of  cedar-birds  rested  in  it  for 
a  while  as  they  had  in  the  morning.  The  sun  set 
and  night  breathed  upon  the  meadow.  A  single 
cedar-bird  remained  in  the  tip  of  the  tree  and 
drearily  repeated  his  one  dismal  word.  Below 
in  the  shadows  the  catbirds  were  restlessly 
mewing,  and  as  it  grew  dark  the  lament  of  the 
hermits  joined  in  the  gloomy  chorus.  The  sky 
was  fair,  and  rosy  lights  flowed  and  ebbed  in 
the  clouds.  The  stars  came,  and  in  the  distant 
pines  a  barred  owl  sounded  his  long  trumpet 
note.  A  few  minutes  after  seven,  when  cat- 
birds and  hermits  were  silent  for  the  night,  I 
heard  a  solitary  sandpiper  whistling  at  the 
mouth  of  the  brook.  My  glass  brought  his  tiny 
form  to  view,  and  as  I  watched  him,  a  second 
tattler  ran  along  the  gleaming  sand  and  the 
whistling  ceased.  Suddenly  they  flew  together 
as  though  startled,  and  the  next  moment  I  saw 
what  I  had  supposed  to  be  a  bunch  of  pickerel- 
weed  growing  in  the  shallows  move  slowly  east- 
ward.    The  object  was   several  rods  from  the 


THE  DEAD   TREE'S  DAT.  117 

shore,  and  moving  across  the  mouth  of  the 
brook.  Now  it  glided  a  few  inches,  then  it 
paused.  Ten  minutes  passed  before  it  pro- 
gressed as  many  yards.  It  was  the  heron's 
ghostly  form.  When  he  reached  the  eastern 
shore  a  light  flashed  across  the  lake  and  a  voice 
sounded.  He  flew.  I  rose  to  go,  but  as  I 
crept  out  upon  the  sand  I  turned  to  take  a  last 
look  at  the  tree,  and  saw  there  the  heron,  stand- 
ing on  a  high  limb,  black  against  the  sk^. 


MIGRATION. 

For  He  led  as,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 
And  flowers  put  on  a  fairer  hue, 
And  everything  was  strange  and  new. 

The  quaint  story  of  Noah's  gathering  the 
animals  into  the  ark  is  always  linked  in  my 
mind  with  the  Pied  Piper,  and  with  that  strange 
turn  in  the  tide  of  bird  life  which  is  called  mi- 
gration. The  marvelous  music  which  charmed 
the  rats  and  children  of  Hamelin  town  must 
have  been  used  by  Noah  to  call  his  creatures 
into  the  ark  of  safety,  and  it  is  still  to  be  heard 
in  the  winds  of  autumn  sighing  through  the 
Chocorua  forests  and  calling  the  birds  away  to 
other  lands.  One  day  all  is  calm  and  serene; 
the  next,  though  the  sky  is  just  as  blue  and  the 
sunlight  just  as  warm,  something  of  unrest  is  in 
the  air,  and  the  birds  are  telling  each  other  the 
story  of  the  gTeat  journey.  Songs  are  forgotten 
or  sung  only  to  greet  the  dawn  and  bless  the 
night;  nestlings  are  trained  to  flight  and  led 
silent  journeys  through  field,  forest,  or  ether 
after  food ;  new  scenes  are  visited,  and  the  weak 


MIGRATION.  119 

separated  from  the  strong  and  left  to  die.  Then, 
sometimes  by  day,  sometimes  by  night,  the  hosts 
meet,  drawn  together  by  a  force  as  irresistible 
and  mysterious  as  magnetism,  and  finally  the 
story  of  the  great  journey  is  written  in  fact  once 
more. 

In  the  August  mornings  I  hear  the  Swainson's 
thrush  by  the  lake.  He  was  not  there  a  few 
days  before,  he  was  on  the  mountain-side.  He 
is  drifting  southward,  slowly  at  first,  but  feeling 
the  thrill  of  the  Pied  Piper's  music  in  his  wings. 
All  through  the  summer  I  have  listened  in  vain 
for  the  nasal  ''''quanh^  quank,  quanh^^^  of  the  red 
nuthatch.  Suddenly,  in  mid- August,  I  hear  it 
on  the  mountain,  and  an  hour  or  two  later  every 
flock  of  chickadees  brings  the  northern  migrant's 
call  along  with  the  jolly  chorus  of  "<?ee,  dee, 
<?ee."  These  chickadees,  alert,  courageous,  tire- 
less, and  generous,  are  the  convoys  of  the  warbler 
fleets.  For  an  hour  the  silence  of  the  forest 
will  be  broken  only  by  the  tiresome  platitudes 
of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  dry  staccato  of  the 
harvest-fly,  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  hyla. 
Then,  far  away,  will  be  heard  the  faint  "t?ee-t?ee  '* 
of  the  titmouse.  It  comes  nearer,  and  presently 
a  dozen  or  twenty  little  birds  are  seen  hovering, 
darting,  flitting,  but  steadily  advancing,  tree  by 
tree,  through  the  woods.  Perhaps  not  more  than 
one  in  ten  will  be  a  chickadee,  yet  it  is  the  chick- 


120    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER, 

adee  which  gives  character  and  direction  to  the 
body.  The  guided  flock  of  easy-going  warblers 
and  vireos,  nuthatches  and  kinglets,  drift  on, 
feeding  and  frolicking,  heedless  of  what  it 
passes. 

If  the  observer  "squeaks,"  or  if  an  owl  draws 
the  attention  of  the  passing  birds,  the  chickadee 
comes  to  the  front  at  once,  with  his  sharp  re- 
proving iterations,  and  his  beady  eyes  snapping 
indignantly.  Along  with  him  come  red-eyed 
and  solitary  vireos,  nuthatches,  golden-crested 
kinglets,  black-throated  blue  warblers,  Wilson's 
blackcaps,  yoimg  chestnut-sided  warblers,  look- 
ing puzzlingly  unlike  their  parents.  Black- 
bumians,  with  throats  aflame;  black-throated 
greens,  rich  in  spring  tints  of  yellow  and  ten- 
der green ;  black  and  white  creepers,  the  tidiest 
of  birds;  the  gay  magnolias,  redstarts,  Cana- 
dians, and  sober  myrtle  warblers.  Sometimes 
a  single  flock  contains  nearly  all  of  these  cour- 
tiers of  the  woods,  while  others  are  composed 
almost  entirely  of  a  single  species,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  black-throated  greens,  or  the  mag- 
nolias. 

In  these  same  late  August  and  early  Septem- 
ber days  the  cherry  and  berry  eaters  gather 
together  and  travel  in  flocks.  Robins  by  scores, 
sometimes  by  hundreds,  combine  with  the  cedar- 
birds  and  flickers  and  range  over  the  country  in 


MIGRATION.  121 

search  of  food.  The  flickers  feed  much  of  the 
time  upon  the  groimd  among  the  berry -bushes, 
casting  aside  woodpecker  habits  and  seeming 
more  like  starlings.  The  robins  are  sometimes 
with  them  upon  the  ground,  but  oftener  in  the 
wild  cherry-trees  with  the  cedar-birds,  stripping 
bough  after  bough  of  its  dark  fruit.  When  the 
flock  moves,  the  cedar-birds  mass  themselves 
and  fly  for  a  while  as  though  linked  together. 
Then,  without  apparent  cause,  part  or  the  whole 
turn  about  and  fly  first  this  way,  then  that,  per- 
haps coming  back,  after  a  few  minutes,  to  the 
point  of  departure.  When  a  flock  of  red  cross- 
bills do  this,  they  sprinkle  the  air  and  the  earth 
with  sweet  notes ;  but  the  cedar-birds  have  no 
joy  in  their  one  chilly  whistle,  and  there  is  more 
of  aimless,  witless  indecision  in  their  flights 
than  there  is  of  romping.  Whenever  I  come 
near  one  of  their  flocks,  I  scan  them  carefully, 
hoping  to  detect  the  white  wing-bars  of  a  Bo- 
hemian waxwing  among  them,  yet  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  I  may  watch  a  lifetime  without 
having  the  fortune  to  see  in  the  flesh  one  of 
those  rare  vagabonds  of  the  north.  The  roving 
habits  of  these  birds  and  of  the  crossbills  con- 
trast strangely  with  the  simple  steadfastness  of 
the  grouse,  and  the  clock-like  punctuality  of 
many  of  the  migrants.  Something  in  that  cold 
past  with  its  glaciers  and  ice-crushed  continents 


122    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

could  explain  the  present  temperaments  of  the 
wandering  birds,  but  we  may  never  know  what 
that  something  is.  Whether  we  are  to  know  it 
or  not,  it  is  natural  to  have  a  feeling  akin  to 
pity  for  birds  so  lacking  in  home  life. 

The  winter  wren  is  an  amusing  little  migrant. 
He  seems  to  have  an  underground  railway  of  his 
own  from  the  grim  northern  forest  straight  to- 
wards a  milder  clime.  Like  other  underground 
ways,  it  has  breathing  holes,  and  out  of  these 
he  occasionally  pops  his  head  and  sputters  at 
the  observer.  Sometimes  he  appears  at  an 
opening  in  a  stone  wall  and  scolds  mankind  for 
picking  blackberries  or  plucking  goldenrod; 
again  he  emerges  from  the  darkness  beneath  a 
log  in  the  swamp,  and  bustles  about  with  the 
offensive  energy  of  a  special  policeman.  If  he 
travels  in  company,  the  fact  is  not  often  made 
evident.  He  certainly  seems  too  crusty  for 
pleasant  companionship  on  a  long  journey. 
One  late  September  morning  a  winter  wren  flew 
into  my  hen-house  and  became  my  prisoner  for 
a  few  hours.  I  placed  him  in  a  room  and 
watched  his  efforts  to  escape.  He  flew  with 
such  speed  that  he  made  almost  as  much  of  a 
humming  as  a  humming-bird.  He  clung  to  the 
woodwork,  and  hid  in  the  curtains,  but  finally 
dropped  to  the  floor  and  ran  about  like  a  mouse, 
biding  in  corners  or  behind  the  legs  of  chairs. 


MIGRATION.  123 

Once  or  twice  I  caught  him  and  stroked  his 
head  and  neck.  He  was  quiet  enough  while  I 
touched  him,  but  the  moment  my  fingers  left 
him,  he  slipped  away  out  of  sight.  When 
taken  out  of  doors  and  set  free,  he  darted  into 
the  nearest  stone  wall  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Birds  of  the  upper  air  which  feed  on  insects 
depart  early.  The  eaves  swallows  and  martins 
go  while  some  mothers  are  still  sitting  on  be- 
lated eggs.  Bank  swallows,  bam  swallows, 
night-hawks,  and  many  of  the  tyrant  flycatchers 
have  vanished  by  the  time  the  maples  begin  to 
flame  upon  the  mountain-side.  On  the  3d  of 
August,  1891,  I  saw  about  twenty  martins  in 
the  dead  tree.  They  were  very  noisy,  and 
evidently  excited.  While  watching  them  I  saw 
in  the  zenith  what  looked  like  a  cloud  of  insects. 
My  glass  showed  it  to  be  a  large  flock  of  birds, 
apparently  swallows,  moving  in  a  great  circle. 
After  a  time  all  but  one  of  the  martins  in  the 
tree  flew  away  and  were  gone  many  minutes, 
the  birds  in  the  sky  also  disappearing.  The 
martins  returned,  however,  to  the  one  which 
had  not  flown,  and  shortly  after  I  again  discov- 
ered the  bird  cluster  in  the  sky.  After  fresh 
noise  and  flutterings  of  wings  the  martins 
finally  flew,  and  no  more  were  seen  near  the 
lake  that  season.  Often  in  an  August  afternoon 
the  lake  will  be  apparently  without  birds,  when 


124  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

in  a  twinkling  the  air  will  be  full  of  graceful 
forms,  and  a  flock  of  white-breasted  swallows, 
barn  swallows,  or  night-hawks  will  sweep  over 
the  blue  water,  rise,  vanish  over  the  meadow, 
reappear,  fly  towards  the  peak,  wheel,  return, 
and  then  perhaps  speed  away,  not  to  greet  the 
fair  lake  again  until  ice  and  snow  have  come 
and  gone,  and  the  niunber  of  their  own  light 
forms  has  been  sadly  diminished  in  the  south. 

A  field  of  buckwheat  or  other  small  grain  is 
a  magnet  in  the  days  when  the  birds  are  wan- 
dering. To  it  come  the  song  sparrows,  chip- 
ping sparrows,  white-throats,  juncos,  purple 
finches,  field  sparrows,  goldfinches,  and  bay- 
winged  buntings.  They  love  to  linger  many 
days  in  the  stubble;  and  when  bird  music  is 
rare,  their  occasional  songs  are  precious  to  the 
ear.  If  the  field  is  approached  softly  there 
seems  to  be  no  life  hidden  in  its  midst,  but  sud- 
denly wings  whirr  noisily,  and  bird  after  bird 
flies  up  into  the  neighboring  trees  and  bushes. 
Sparrows  love  fences,  stone  walls,  and  their  ac- 
companying growths  of  berry-bushes  and  small 
trees.  The  latter  are  our  New  England  sub- 
stitutes for  the  hedgerows  of  the  Old  World,  and 
I  believe  the  sparrow  tribe  takes  as  much  com- 
fort in  wall  and  briers  as  in  hedge  and  ditch. 
The  ditch  is  more  than  replaced  by  countless 
brooks,  always  clear  and  pure,  and  the  wall 


MIGRATION.  125 

gives  shade,  shelter,  food,  and  many  a  comfort- 
able perch.  While  driving  along  the  narrow 
roads,  bordered  by  many  a  mile  of  rough  stone 
wall,  the  rattle  of  my  wagon  wheels  startles  the 
sparrows  and  finches  from  their  cover.  The 
bay-wing  runs  along  the  rut  in  front  of  the 
horse;  the  goldfinch  imdulates  over  the  field, 
turns,  and  ripples  back;  the  song  sparrow 
mounts  a  bush-top  and  scolds ;  the  white-throat 
appears  for  a  moment  in  a  gap  between  the 
bushes  and  then  goes  on  with  his  scratching  in 
the  leaves.  So  they  go  southward  along  the 
dusty  roads,  or  the  borders  of  dry  field  and 
dryer  pasture.  They  are  thousands  strong,  yet 
they  look  to  be  but  a  few  each  day,  and  the 
careless  eye  might  think  them  always  the  same 
individuals  from  mid- August  until  Indian  sum- 
mer. 

Sometimes  alone,  but  often  with  the  field 
sparrows  and  bay-wings,  or  later  with  the  jun- 
cos,  flocks  of  bluebirds  travel  the  autumnal 
way.  This  year,  on  August  28,  I  saw  a  flock 
of  twelve  working  slowly  along  a  moor-like 
pasture  ridge  in  company  with  double  their 
number  of  sparrows.  I  have  seen  them  by 
dozens  in  early  October  mingle  with  juncos  and 
white-throats  in  gleaning  over  the  stubble  just 
left  bare  by  the  melting  of  a  first  snowfall.  As 
they  fly  from  spot  to  spot,  they  prefer  to  alight 


126  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

on  the  upper  curve  of  a  boulder,  the  tip  of  a 
cedar,  or  some  equally  favorable  point  for  see- 
ing and  being  seen.  They  are  comparatively 
silent,  but  now  and  then  their  sweet  '"^cheruit" 
comes  as  a  promise  that  after  the  long  winter 
spring  shall  return,  and  with  it  their  loveliness 
and  courage.  Many  of  the  birds  go  south 
cheerfully,  or  indifferently,  but  the  bluebirds 
seem  to  linger  sadly  and  lovingly,  and  to  feel 
that  the  migration  is  an  enforced  exile  from  the 
home  they  love  best. 

The  Chocorua  country  is  not  a  good  one  for 
starlings  and  blackbirds;  in  fact,  I  have  never 
seen  but  one  bobolink  nearer  than  Fryeburg 
intervales,  twenty -five  miles  away ;  and  with  all 
my  watching,  no  crow  blackbird  or  meadow 
lark  has  ever  caught  my  eye  in  this  region. 
The  old  residents  say  that  years  ago,  when  flax 
was  cultivated  hereabouts  and  grain -fields  were 
broader,  these  birds  were  present  in  large  num- 
bers. The  first  flock  of  rusty  grackles  which  I 
have  ever  seen  here  appeared  this  year  on  a  hill- 
top, about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  Sep- 
tember 22.  The  birds  were  either  very  tame 
or  very  weary,  for  they  remained  in  the  tops  of 
some  locust-trees,  while  I  not  only  stood  beneath 
them,  but  shook  their  tree,  called  to  them,  and 
clapped  my  hands.  They  maintained  a  steady 
flow  of  sotto  voce  music  charming  to  the  ear. 


MIGRATION.  127 

All  migrants  are  not  desirable  visitors.  An 
inroad  of  hawks  is  far  from  pleasant  for  the 
birds  of  a  neighborhood,  or  for  other  migrants. 
All  through  the  month  of  September  hawks 
abound.  They  circle  round  the  peak  of  Cho- 
corua,  seemingly  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  Often 
a  dozen  sharp -shinned  and  young  Cooper's 
hawks  are  in  sight  there  at  once.  Sometimes 
great  flocks  of  hawks  pass  across  the  sky,  not 
circling,  as  the  red-tailed  and  red-shouldered 
hawks  are  so  fond  of  doing,  but  sailing  straight 
before  the  wind  like  a  fleet  of  mackerelmen 
running  down  the  coast  wing  and  wing.  I  once 
saw  three  hundred  and  thirty  migrating  hawks 
in  one  forenoon,  most  of  them  a  thousand  feet 
or  less  above  the  earth,  but  some  so  high  that 
a  powerful  glass  only  just  brought  them  into 
view.  The  stately  progress  of  these  birds,  mov- 
ing many  miles  an  hour  without  a  wing-beat 
visible  to  the  observer,  is  one  of  the  wonders  of 
nature.  The  Dead  Tree  is  a  resting-place  for 
migrating  hawks,  eagles,  and  ospreys.  I  doubt 
not  that  by  night  it  is  used  by  owls,  when  they 
too  move  southward  as  their  food  grows  scarce. 

In  several  different  years  I  have  seen  my  big 
blue  heron  sail  away  southward.  In  each  in- 
stance it  has  been  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  Rising  with  slow  and  dignified 
flight,  he  makes  two  or  three  immense  circles 


128  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

over  the  lakes,  and  then,  as  though  partings 
were  said,  landmarks  remembered,  and  bearings 
taken,  he  flies  with  strong  and  steady  strokes 
towards  the  outlet  of  the  Ossipee  basin.  This 
year,  in  August,  ten  night  herons  visited  us  at 
one  time,  remaining  in  the  neighborhood  two  or 
three  days.  When  disturbed  by  day,  they  rose, 
and,  forming  an  orderly  flock,  flew  away  with 
military  precision.  The  ducks  and  geese  are, 
however,  the  best  examples  of  well-drilled  com- 
panies. Geese  are  not  often  seen  here,  although 
several  were  killed  this  spring  in  a  small  lake 
halfway  between  Chocorua  and  the  Bearcamp. 
Wood  duck  and  black  duck  begin  to  fly  past  us 
late  in  August,  but  their  numbers  are  compara- 
tively insignificant,  a  flock  of  ten  being  un- 
usually large.  In  October  and  early  November 
the  wind-swept  lakes  are  seldom  without  little 
companies  of  black  ducks,  sheldrakes,  and  their 
less  common  relatives. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  migrants  is 
the  loon,  or  great  northern  diver.  Loons  are 
said  to  breed  in  this  vicinity  on  Whitton  Pond, 
and  they  are  seen  now  and  then  during  all  the 
summer  months.  It  is  on  the  edge  of  a  north- 
east storm  in  September,  when  mackerel  clouds 
deck  the  sky  and  the  hazy  sunlight  spreads  gold 
upon  the  ripples,  that  the  migrating  loon  comes 
with  the  force   of  a  cannon-ball,  and  plimges 


MIGBATION.  129 

into  the  lake's  waters.  His  shrill  laughter  is 
taken  up  by  all  the  mocking  forests,  and  his 
deep  and  prolonged  diving  carries  consternation 
to  bass  and  pickerel.  Restlessly  he  plows  the 
ruffled  water  with  his  broad  breast,  and  now 
and  then  he  pounds  the  waves  with  his  wings, 
raising  his  head  high  above  them.  When  he 
flies,  the  water  is  churned  into  foam  for  many 
yards  before  his  unwieldy  body  is  fiinally  raised 
into  the  air  and  placed  under  the  fidl  control 
of  his  powerful  wings.  Then  he  rises  little  by 
little,  his  wings  moving  faster  and  faster,  until, 
after  progressing  half  a  mile,  he  has  risen  two 
or  three  hundred  feet.  Turning,  he  comes  back, 
still  rising,  and  passes  in  review  the  lake  and 
forests  which  he  is  to  leave.  Again  and  again 
he  tacks,  on  each  new  line  rising  farther  from 
the  earth,  until  at  last,  seen  against  the  sky,  he 
is  but  a  pair  of  swiftly  whirling  wings  set 
strangely  far  back  on  the  long  black  line  of  his 
head,  neck,  and  body.  It  is  said  that  hunters 
have  been  killed  by  being  struck  by  falling  loons 
shot  by  them  on  the  wing. 

Occasionally  a  stray  sea-bird  comes  to  the 
mountain  lakes.  Herring  gulls  have  been  seen 
on  Chocorua  Pond,  a  Wilson's  tern  was  shot  on 
August  30,  1890,  on  Ossipee  Lake,  and  a  year 
earlier,  on  September  30,  a  black  tern  remained 
half  a  day  on  my  lonely  lake. 


130  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Late  in  September  and  in  October  there  are 
days  when  the  rush  of  migrating  birds  is  like 
the  stampede  of  a  defeated  army.  I  recall  one 
such  day,  the  25th  of  September,  1891,  when  a 
torrent  of  migrants  swept  past  my  red-roofed 
cottage  in  the  hour  following  sunrise.  Before 
breakfast,  and  without  going  out  of  sight  of  my 
door,  I  saw  over  two  hundred  birds  go  by,  in- 
cluding sixty  pigeon  woodpeckers,  several  sap- 
suckers,  nuthatches,  chickadees,  crows,  blue 
jays,  robins,  catbirds,  seven  kinds  of  warblers, 
solitary  and  red-eyed  vireos,  four  kinds  of  spar- 
rows, a  tanager,  pewees,  and  a  flock  of  cedar- 
birds.  Most  of  these  birds  were  on  the  trees, 
bushes,  or  ground,  busily  feeding,  yet  restlessly 
progressing  southwestward,  as  though  haunted 
by  some  irresistible  impulse  to  keep  in  motion. 
The  day  was  hot  and  still,  and  my  notes  men- 
tion the  fact  that  we  heard  the  splash  of  an 
osprey  as  he  plunged  into  the  lake,  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  That  evening  the 
whippoorwills  were  singing  their  farewells  in 
the  soft  moonlight. 

As  the  early  October  days  glide  by,  these 
waves  of  migration  come  faster  and  faster,  their 
acceleration  seeming,  as  one  looks  back  upon 
it,  like  the  ever  quicker  throbbing  of  the  air 
under  the  wing-beats  of  the  grouse.  Even  as  the 
drumming  suddenly  ceases  and  the  summer  air 


MIGRATION.  131 

seems  still  and  heavy  in  the  silence  which  fol- 
lows, so  the  migration  suddenly  ends,  and  the 
woods  and  fields  become  very  still  in  the  late 
Indian  summer.  Now  and  then  the  scream  of 
a  blue  jay  falls  upon  the  ear,  or  a  faint  note  of 
a  tree  sparrow  comes  from  the  weeds  by  the 
roadside ;  but  as  a  rule  nature  is  dumb,  and  the 
leaves  fall  like  tears.  All  the  beauty  of  sky 
and  autumn  foliage  cannot  bring  the  birds  back 
to  the  silent  forest.  Warm  though  the  sun 
may  be,  and  soft  the  haze  on  the  cheek  of  Pas- 
saconaway,  these  charms  cannot  woo  back  the 
birds  from  their  migration.  The  music  of  the 
Pied  Piper  has  bewitched  them,  they  are  dream- 
ing of  gushing  waters  and  flowers  of  fairest  hue ; 
and  many  a  frosty,  starlit  night  will  pass  before 
their  wings  beat  once  more  in  the  clear  Cho- 
corua  air. 


TRAPPING  GNOMES. 

When  the  harvest  moon  is  large  and  the 
nights  clear,  I  love  to  spend  an  evening  hour  or 
two  under  the  great  oak-trees  on  the  shore  of 
my  lonely  lake.  The  soft  mists  creep  across 
the  water,  bats  flit  back  and  forth  squeaking, 
the  whippoorwills  call  to  each  other  that  the 
time  for  migration  is  near  at  hand,  and  some- 
times the  voices  of  the  barred  owls  wake  weird 
echoes  in  the  lake's  curves.  Sitting  motionless 
in  the  black  shadow,  I  am  unseen  and  unsus- 
pected by  the  night  creatures  round  me.  Many 
feet  move  upon  the  dry  leaves,  and  the  flutter- 
ing of  wings  disturbs  the  still  air.  Measuring 
the  evening  from  sunset  until  ten  o'clock,  it 
seems  a  period  of  more  activity  than  the  day. 
Hours  roll  by  in  the  September  sunlight  with 
scarce  a  sign  of  life  near  the  lake,  but  the  com- 
ing of  twilight  is  a  signal  for  awakening.  High 
in  the  oaks  the  gray  squirrels  are  busy  with  the 
acorns.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night  an  acorn 
falling  against  one  and  another  bunch  of  stiff 
leaves,  finally  striking  upon  the  ground,  seems 
to  make  an  unduly  loud  noise.    The  fine  squeak 


TRAPPING   GNOMES.  133 

of  a  bat  might  pass  unnoticed  in  the  daytime, 
but  in  the  gloom  it  carries  far  and  comes  upon 
the  ear  sharply. 

In  these  hours  the  ground  gives  up  its  cave- 
dwellers,  and  their  soft  feet  rustle  the  leaves  in 
all  the  forest  and  by  every  brookside.  From 
the  ledges  of  Chocorua,  foxes  by  dozens  descend 
upon  the  surroimding  farms  and  search  for  mice 
and  other  prey.  It  is  the  light  snowfall  which 
betrays  the  great  number  of  these  wary  ma- 
rauders, and  not  the  secretive  leaves  of  autmnn, 
upon  whose  dry  surfaces  the  fox-tread  makes  no 
imprint.  From  his  den  under  the  screes  the 
hedgehog  wanders  through  the  woods  or  seeks 
the  orchard.  The  skunk,  too,  is  abroad,  poking 
his  snout  into  ant-hills  or  among  mouldering 
leaves  where  insects  lie  hidden.  It  is  neither 
fox  nor  skunk  which  makes  the  soft  pattering 
just  behind  the  old  oak  against  which  I  lean. 
A  smaller  wanderer  than  they  comes  there,  and 
as  surely  as  gnomes  have  settled  in  America 
this  must  be  one  of  their  haunts.  I  feel  certain 
of  it  when  a  squeaky  little  whisper  follows  the 
pattering,  or  when  occasionally  a  tiny  form  darts 
across  a  patch  of  moonlight  near  the  edge  of  the 
water. 

In  these  September  hunting-days  I  have  left 
the  grouse  to  feed  undisturbed  among  the  black- 
berries, and  the  hare  to  dream  away  the  sunlit 


134  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

hours  in  his  form  among  the  swamp  evergreens. 
Gnome-hunting  has  been  my  pastime,  and  so 
low  is  our  human  estimate  of  the  character  and 
usefuhiess  of  these  tiny  creatures  that  my  con- 
science has  not  given  the  faintest  bit  of  a  twinge 
when  I  have  brought  home  dead  gnomes  from 
field,  meadow,  mountain,  and  forest.  Our 
gnomes  are  not  all  of  one  kind,  and  when  I 
started  with  my  game-bag  in  the  September  stm- 
light  I  did  not  feel  sure  what  manner  of  elf  I 
might  bring  home  with  me.  Setting  out  early 
on  the  morning  of  the  12th,  I  dashed  the  dew 
from  the  brakes  as  I  crossed  an  open  pasture 
on  the  way  to  my  lonely  lake.  The  brakes  were 
growing  brown,  yet  we  had  had  no  frost,  and 
the  equinox  was  still  ten  days  distant.  The 
sumacs  were  gorgeous  in  green,  scarlet,  and  or- 
ange, waiting  for  the  first  rain  or  wind  to  hurl 
to  the  ground  half  their  gay  leaves.  As  they 
hung  motionless  in  the  sunlight,  they  seemed 
brilliant  enough  for  the  tropics.  Asters  and 
goldenrod  joined  them  in  painting  part  of  the 
picture  with  high  colors,  and  so  did  the  maples 
on  the  high  ledges  of  the  mountain  where  a 
bear-hunter's  fire  raged  last  October.  A  bit  of 
woodbine  climbing  up  the  maple  trunk  gleamed 
like  flames,  mountain-ash  berries  were  full  of  the 
same  fire,  and  the  clustered  fruit  of  the  hobble- 
bush  glowed  in  the  midst  of  its  maroon  and 
crimson  foliage. 


TRAPPING  GNOMES.  135 

What  means  this  decking  of  the  earth  in  au- 
tumn with  scarlet  and  purple,  crimson  and  gold, 
russet  and  orange?  The  flowers  of  the  spring- 
time are  fidl  of  joyous  color,  in  order  that  the 
wandering  bee  and  butterfly  may  aid  in  their 
fortilization.  The  bird  gleams  with  color  as 
the  glow-worm  gleams  with  fire,  that  his  mate 
may  not  forget  him  in  the  mazes  of  the  life- 
dance.  The  autunrn  is  the  season  of  ripening, 
of  the  gathering  of  harvests,  of  the  decay  of  the 
earthly,  and  the  creation  of  that  which  shall 
endure.  Are  these  colors  only  the  emblems  of 
death,  the  garlands  upon  the  pall,  or  are  they 
the  signals  which  Nature  hangs  on  high  to  call 
her  forces  into  ranks  for  the  battle  against  ex- 
tinction and  in  favor  of  persistent  life?  Surely 
the  berry  which  by  its  brilliancy  of  color  calls 
the  bird  to  it,  in  order  that  it  may  be  eaten  and 
its  seeds  carried  afar,  is  as  wise  as  the  flower 
which  by  its  tints  and  perfume  attracts  the  bee 
and  secures  fertilization.  Perhaps  the  tree 
which  blazes  with  autumn  color  is  avoided  by 
insects  whose  instinct  teaches  them  to  shun  colors 
in  contrast  to  their  own. 

Just  beyond  the  sumacs  is  the  stump  of  a  pre- 
historic pine.  It  has  lasted  generations  since 
its  towering  pillar  fell  and  sank  year  by  year 
deeper  into  the  soil.  Its  hard  gray  walls  look 
as  though   they  might  endure  half  a  century 


136  AT  THE  NORTE  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

more  of  snow  and  sunshine.  Gnomes  live  under 
that  stump,  and  the  first  of  my  traps  was  set  at 
their  cave  archway.  Kneeling  down  behind  the 
clustering  blackberry  briers,  I  could  see  the 
archway  just  at  the  head  of  the  opening  between 
two  of  the  great  buttress  roots  of  the  stump. 
Moss  was  growing  at  the  threshold,  ferns  over- 
hung the  doorway,  and  a  tiny  path  led  through 
the  gi'ass  from  the  arch  into  the  dry  pasture  be- 
yond the  briers.  Yes,  the  trap  had  been  sprung, 
and  crushed  beneath  its  cruel  springs  was  a  gray 
gnome.  His  eyes  were  large  and  dark.  His 
coat  was  of  soft  gray,  and  his  waistcoat  snowy. 
His  hands  and  feet  were  very  white  and  his  elfin 
ears  mischievously  large  and  erect.  The  name 
of  this  gnome  is  quite  musical,  —  Hesperomys, 
the  evening  gnome. 

In  a  deep  hollow  between  wooded  banks  runs 
the  pasture  brook.  It  comes  from  the  forest- 
clad  mountain-side,  and  flows  to  a  dark  swamp, 
beyond  which  is  the  lake.  Gnomes  live  by  the 
brook,  both  in  the  hollow  and  in  the  swamp. 
Nine  traps  were  set  in  the  hollow  and  eighteen 
in  the  swamp.  These  traps  are,  with  true  Yan- 
kee originality,  named  "cyclones,"  and  they  are 
nearly  perfect  as  engines  of  destruction.  Upon 
a  small  square  of  tin  are  hinged  two  rectangles 
of  stiff  wire,  so  attached  to  strong  springs  that 
they  naturally  lie  flat  upon  the  square  of  tin. 


TRAPPING  GNOMES.  137 

One  rectangle  is  smaller  than  the  other  so  that 
it  just  lies  within  it.  The  trap  is  set  by  raising 
the  rectangles  until  they  make  a  tent-like  frame, 
and  then  securing  them  by  a  catch.  The  best 
lure  for  gnomes  is  whole  corn,  which  is  placed 
near  the  centre  of  the  square  of  tin  in  a  tiny 
cup  suspended  by  a  lever  to  the  catch  which 
holds  the  trap  open.  The  gnome  steps  softly 
through  the  wire  rectangles  and  tries  to  lift  the 
grain  from  the  cup.  Woe  to  him  if  he  presses 
ever  so  lightly  upon  the  side  of  the  cup,  for  if 
it  is  depressed,  and  the  other  end  of  the  lever 
moved,  the  catch  is  cast  free  and  the  rectangles 
fall  together  with  such  force  as  to  crush  any 
small  creature  which  stands  below  them. 

The  nine  traps  set  by  the  brook  were  in  groups 
of  three.  As  I  drew  near  the  first  group,  I 
looked  for  broken  twigs  and  a  scrap  of  white 
cotton  tied  to  a  branch,  my  signals  to  show  where 
the  traps  were  placed.  Bent  twigs  with  their 
leaves  slightly  withered  and  drooping  are  readily 
seen  at  a  long  distance.  The  first  three  traps 
were  set  at  a  point  where  the  banks  of  the  brook 
were  steep,  and  the  level  moss  near  the  water 
only  a  narrow  belt.  At  one  place  a  mossy  log 
crossed  this  level,  a  moiJdering  stump  crowned 
with  ferns  flanked  it,  and  a  big  boulder  raised 
a  wall  of  granite  parallel  with  the  stream.  Just 
across  the  brook  was  another  long  log  covered 


138    AT  THE  NORTE  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

with  moss,  violet  leaves,  and  rue.  One  trap  was 
on  this  log,  one  by  the  boulder  close  to  a  little 
hole  running  under  it,  and  the  third  near  the 
mouldering  stump.  At  first  as  I  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  traps  I  could  see  none  of  them. 
The  com  scattered  near  had  been  carried  away 
or  eaten,  and  the  strings  by  which  the  traps 
were  tied  to  stakes  were  not  where  I  remembered 
to  have  left  them.  Suddenly  I  saw  one  trap. 
It  was  sprung  and  drawn  away  among  the  leaves. 
Something  was  in  it,  something  I  had  never 
before  seen,  a  creature  more  beautiful  than  any 
squirrel,  as  graceful  as  a  swallow  and  as  sugges- 
tive of  speed  and  lightness.  I  knelt  over  this 
slender,  brightly-clad  gnome,  and  released  his 
lifeless  body  from  the  trap.  His  cobweb-like 
whiskers  were  wonderfully  long,  his  coat  was  of 
pale  straw  color  and  brown,  his  waistcoat  of 
purest  white.  No  monkey  has  a  tail  proportion- 
ally longer  than  the  seemingly  endless  white- 
tipped  appendage  of  Zapus  insignis^  this  jump- 
ing gnome  of  the  mountain  streams.  Exquisite 
creature,  I  thought,  how  can  I  have  lived  so 
long  among  woods  and  brooks  without  suspect- 
ing your  presence?  But  for  a  "cyclone"  I 
might  never  have  known  that  such  a  being  ex- 
isted. 

The  other  two  traps  were  sprung,  one  con- 
taining a  second  Zapus,  and  the  third  a  gray 


TWO  KINDS  OF  GNOMES 
Hesperomys  (above)  and  Zapus  (below) 


TRAPPING    GNOMES.  139 

Hesperomys.  Similar  fortune  had  attended  the 
remaining  traps  by  the  brook,  three  containing 
specimens  of  Zajnis,  two  of  Hesperomys,  and 
one  a  large  mole  with  fur  as  fine  as  the  softest 
silk  velvet.  I  pushed  on  eagerly  to  the  series 
of  traps  in  the  swamp. 

On  the  way  I  crossed  a  strip  of  level  pasture 
over  which  a  grove  of  gray  birches  is  rapidly 
spreading  year  by  year.  Several  of  them  are 
bent  so  that  their  upper  branches  sweep  the 
ground.  They  are  victims  of  the  snow  and  ice 
storms  of  winter,  and,  unlike  the  Arlington 
cedars,  they  are  not  resilient  enough  to  recover 
an  erect  position.  In  the  heart  of  the  grove,  a 
family  of  sapsucking  woodpeckers  had  been  at 
work  in  one  of  their  "orchards."  Eight  trees 
bore  marks  of  their  mischievous  tapping,  and  in 
the  two  principal  trees  many  hundreds  of  holes 
had  been  made  by  them.  Their  thirst  is  as 
insatiable  as  Mulvaney's,  but  I  supposed  that 
before  this  time  they  had  wearied  of  their  sum- 
mer fountains.  Not  so ;  one  of  them  was  hitch- 
ing around  the  drills,  dipping  as  persistently  as 
in  early  July,  and  bees  buzzed  near  him,  enjoy- 
ing their  share  of  the  tree's  sweets.  Restrain- 
ing my  impatience  to  see  the  swamp  traps,  I 
watched  long  for  a  humming-bird  to  visit  the 
drills,  but  none  came,  thus  confirming  my  im- 
pression that  they  not  only  arrive  in  New  Eng- 


140  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

land  later  than  the  sapsuckers,  but  that  they 
migrate  southward  earlier. 

While  I  waited  under  the  birches,  a  gray 
squirrel  came  tripping  over  the  grass  and 
through  the  brakes.  His  great  brush  was  not 
carried  over  his  back,  but  in  an  arch  behind 
him.  His  approach  was  so  noisy  that  at  first  I 
thought  a  dog  was  coming  towards  me,  but  his 
voice  betrayed  him.  "  Cluck,  cluck,  duck,  deck, 
deck,  deck,  deck,  deck."  If  a  "cyclone"  had 
been  choking  him  he  could  not  have  made 
sounds  any  more  queer.  When  at  last  he  dis- 
covered me,  he  lowered  his  tail  and  undulated 
very  softly  away. 

The  first  of  the  second  series  of  traps  was  set 
on  the  slope  leading  down  towards  the  moist  bed 
of  the  swamp.  It  contained  one  of  the  white- 
footed  gray  gnomes.  The  next  three  were 
empty.  Number  five  was  in  the  darkest  part 
of  the  swamp  on  a  huge  upturned  stump  whose 
twisted  roots,  looking  like  the  arms  of  a  devil- 
fish, reached  far  into  the  air.  The  trap  was 
sprung,  and  the  gnome  in  it  was  as  new  to  my 
eyes  as  Zapus  had  been.  Coarse,  chestnut- 
brown  hair,  in  parts  almost  as  bright  as  red 
mahogany,  small  eyes,  conspicuous  ears,  and  a 
tail  so  short  that  it  seemed  only  a  stump  of 
something  more  satisfactory,  were  the  conspicu- 
ous points  in  this  gnome.     His  name,  as  I  later 


TRAPPING  GNOMES.  141 

learned,  was  Evotomys^  the  long-eared  gnome. 
His  rich  coloring  matched  to  perfection  the  de- 
cayed hemlock  stump  in  which  he  lived,  and 
harmonized  with  the  brown  bark  of  pines  and 
the  stained  waters  of  the  swamp  brooks.  In  the 
sunlight,  or  upon  the  sand  by  the  brookside,  he 
would  have  been  conspicuous.  Where  he  lay  he 
looked  like  a  fragment  of  the  reddish  wood 
under  him. 

Five  more  of  his  tribe,  and  a  tiny  shrew,  only 
three  inches  long,  were  found  in  the  remaining 
swamp  traps.  One  of  the  gnomes  had  been 
nearly  devoured  as  he  lay  in  the  trap,  the  parts 
remaining  being  skin,  feet,  tail,  and  a  small 
portion  of  the  head.  I  suspected  a  big  mole  of 
being  the  ghoul.  On  my  way  home  I  looked 
in  a  trap  set  under  a  small  foot-bridge  which 
spanned  a  damp  spot  in  a  mowing-field.  The 
victims  here  —  for  two  had  been  caught  at 
once  —  were  of  the  family  Arvicola,  the  sturdy 
gnomes  of  the  fields.  Their  eyes  were  very 
small,  their  ears  almost  concealed  by  their 
coarse,  dark-brown  hair,  and  their  bodies  awk- 
wardly but  strongly  built.  They  are  the  farm- 
ing gnomes. 

On  September  17,  I  walked  from  Berry's  to 
the  Swift  River  intervale,  over  the  once  "lost 
trail,"  now  nearly  completed  as  a  broad  bridle- 
path   and    winter    road.     I    took   twenty-five 


142  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

"cyclones  "  with  me  and  set  them  at  the  most 
favorable  spots  along  the  way.  Brook  cross- 
ings, big,  moss-grown  stumps  or  logs,  boulders 
overhanging  springs  or  rivulets,  and  old  log- 
ging camps  were  among  the  places  which  seemed 
to  me  likely  to  be  frequented  by  gnomes.  As  I 
was  not  to  return  until  the  next  day,  a  night 
would  intervene  to  give  the  little  cave-dwellers 
time  to  smell  the  corn  and  to  inspect  and  spring 
the  traps. 

The  intervale  was  very  beautiful  as  it  lay 
tranquil  in  the  autumn  haze,  but  the  memories 
of  last  Christmas-time  had  a  charm  about  them 
which  even  the  foretaste  of  Indian  summer 
could  not  equal.  Snow  adds  greatly  to  the  dig- 
nity and  grandeur  of  our  New  England  moun- 
tains, making  them  more  akin  to  the  Alps,  per- 
petual in  their  wintry  covering.  Chocorua, 
always  a  reminder  of  the  Matterhorn,  is  much 
more  like  it  when  clad  in  ice,  and  rose-tinted 
by  the  morning  sun.  Even  Swift  River,  framed 
in  meadow  brakes,  waving  osmundas,  and  gay 
scarlet  maples,  seemed  less  sparkling  than  when 
set  in  ice  and  overhanging  banks  of  pure  white 
snow. 

As  night  came,  coldness  suggestive  of  winter 
crept  over  the  great  plain.  The  first  light  frost 
came  caressingly  in  the  still  night  hours  and 
fell  upon  the  pumpkin  vines  and  the  delicate 


TRAPPING   GNOMES.  143 

ferns  by  the  roadside,  so  that  morning  saw 
them  wither  away  and  die  in  the  early  sun- 
beams. With  the  dawn  came  many  bird-notes. 
Crows,  jays,  flickers,  red  nuthatches,  chicka- 
dees, golden  kinglets,  robins,  cedar -birds,  and 
goldfinches  all  made  their  voices  heard.  In  the 
bushes  by  the  road,  Maryland  yellow-throats 
mingled  with  various  migrating  sparrows,  and 
among  the  spruces  dozens  of  warblers  flitted 
joyously  back  and  forth,  saying  little,  perhaps 
because  nuthatches  and  red-eyed  vireos  said  too 
much.  Swallows  had  gone,  but  grace  of  flight 
was  shown  by  hawks  of  various  kinds  which 
circled,  soared,  or  shot  past  on  even  wing.  The 
fickle  crossbills,  present  a  year  ago  this  week  in 
large  numbers,  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Sabba  Day  Falls  were  even  grander  than  I 
remembered  them  to  be,  and  although  nothing 
could  surpass  in  loveliness  the  icicles,  frozen 
spray,  masses  of  snow,  and  other  paraphernalia 
of  winter  which  had  surrounded  them  in  Decem- 
ber, their  present  dress  of  tender  green  and 
brown,  relieved  by  autumnal  colors  and  crowned 
by  a  cloudless  sky  of  purest  blue,  was  wonder- 
fully fair  to  look  upon,  and  to  lay  away  in  the 
mind  for  weary  days  when  brick  walls  and 
English  sparrows  should  replace  the  wilderness 
and  its  warblers. 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  turned  my  back  on 


144    AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

Carrigain  and  Bear  and  climbed  the  ridge 
towards  Paugiis  valley.  Would  the  traps  be 
sprung?  The  question  gave  speed  to  my  foot- 
steps, which  might  otherwise  have  lagged  by 
spring  or  brookside,  for  the  day  was  raeltingly 
warm  and  no  breeze  came  over  the  Paugus  ram- 
parts. The  first  trap  was  near  the  top  of  the 
ridge,  under  a  huge  boulder.  It  was  two  miles 
from  the  nearest  house  in  the  intervale,  and 
more  than  double  that  distance  from  Berry's 
or  any  other  inhabited  dwelling  in  Tamworth. 
Perhaps  gnomes  did  not  live  in  spots  so  remote 
from  man  and  his  grain-fields.  The  trap  was 
sprung.  Evotomys  had  found  it  and  perished. 
The  next  one  was  sprung,  and  a  second  long- 
eared  victim  lay  in  it.  So  with  the  third  and 
fourth,  set  at  intervals  of  many  rods.  The 
fifth  was  sprung,  but  empty;  the  sixth  con- 
tained a  gray  Hesperomys  ;  the  seventh  another 
Evotomys.  I  was  now  in  the  deep,  dark  valley 
between  the  northern  ridges  of  Paugus  and 
Chocorua.  Three  miles  and  a  half  of  the 
roughest  mountain  woodland  lay  between  this 
spot  and  tiUed  land,  yet  animal  life  was  so 
abundant  that  it  seemed  to  make  no  difference 
where  I  set  my  traps  and  scattered  my  corn; 
gnomes  were  everywhere  waiting. 

Out  of  twenty-five  traps,  fifteen  held  victims 
and  six  others  were  sprung,  but  empty.     One 


TRAPPING  GNOMES.  145 

of  the  slain  was  a  chipmunk,  another  a  mole. 
Of  the  remainder,  three  were  long-tailed  gray 
Hesperomys^  and  ten  were  red-backed  Evoto- 
mys.  The  latter  are  clearly  the  most  numerous 
inhabitants  of  the  dark  evergreen  forests,  but 
they  are  also  to  be  found  near  secluded  farm 
buildings  in  spots  where  the  fulvous  Ilespero- 
mys  is  the  prevailing  sprite.  Among  these 
gnomes  of  the  woods  and  fields,  all  true  Ameri- 
can species,  a  European  intruder  is  found.  In 
some  thickly  settled  places  he  has  done  among 
gnomes  what  the  European  sparrow  has  done 
among  birds,  elbowed  himself  into  exclusive 
possession.  When  found  in  a  trap,  or  seen 
scampering  along  the  pantry  shelf,  this  gnome 
is  called,  in  vulgar  English,  a  mouse. 


OLD  SHAG. 

Old  Shag,  Toadback,  or  Paugus  Mountain 
stands  in  the  Sandwich  range  between  Cho- 
corua  on  the  east  and  Passaconaway  on  the 
west.  It  is  better  armed  against  attack  by 
mountain  climbers  than  any  of  its  neighbors, 
and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  in  elevation  it 
is  the  lowest  of  the  range.  Its  defenses  consist 
of  numerous  radiating  ridges  covered  with  dense 
growths  of  spruce  and  crossed  by  belts  of  "har- 
ricane,"  miles  of  cliffs  so  forbidding  as  to  repel 
any  but  determined  assault,  and  ravines  choked 
by  debris  of  rock  and  fallen  forest.  No  path  of 
any  kind  leads  to  its  top,  and  when  its  summit 
is  gained,  none  of  the  familiar  marks  indicating 
previous  visits  by  egg-eating,  initial-cutting 
tourists  are  discoverable. 

Like  most  impregnable  fortresses,  Paugus  has 
its  weak  spot.  There  is  a  way  to  reach  its  south - 
em  summit  without  touching  a  "harricane," 
climbing  a  precipice,  or  struggling  through 
more  than  a  few  rods  of  spruce  jungle.  More- 
over, on  this  way  the  traveler  is  sung  to  by  one 
of  the  most  musical  of  streams,  while  his  eyes 


OLD  SHAG.  147 

are  charmed  by  the  ever-changing  beauties  of  a 
series  of  as  exquisite  cascades  as  are  to  be  found 
in  the  White  Mountains.  It  is  true  that  in 
midsummer  the  brook  is  so  reduced  in  size  that 
its  chief  charm  is  seriously  lessened,  but  if  the 
time  chosen  for  ascent  is  in  spring,  autumn,  or 
after  a  heavy  sxunmer  rain,  the  falls  will  be 
found  at  their  best. 

On  the  morning  of  September  15,  a  party  of 
four  persons  entered  the  "lost  trail,"  leading 
from  Berry's  to  the  Swift  Kiver  intervale.  A 
heavy  rain  had  fallen  during  the  whole  of  the 
preceding  day,  and  Paugus  River,  with  all  its 
sons  and  daughters,  grandchildren  brooks,  and 
great-grandchildren  rivulets,  made  the  forest 
resound  with  the  music  of  innumerable  singing 
falls  and  rapids.  Following  the  old  trail  for 
two  miles,  the  party  reached  a  spot  where  a 
good-sized  stream  appeared  flowing  eastward 
from  the  great  hollow  in  the  eastern  flank  of 
Paugus.  Leaving  the  bridle-path  at  this  point, 
and  walking  nearly  due  west,  the  explorers  fol- 
lowed the  branch  towards  its  source.  As  the 
region  was  reported  to  be  thickly  set  with  bear- 
traps,  the  party  walked  in  Indian  file,  while 
their  leader  sounded  and  punched  every  foot  of 
moss  and  soft  leaf  mould  with  his  stout  staJff. 
The  traps  used  by  the  hunters  on  these  moun- 
tains are  murderous   inventions,  consisting  of 


148  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

two  huge  steel  jaws  lined  with  sharp  teeth. 
The  trap,  when  set,  is  buried  beneath  a  layer 
of  moss.  If  a  bear  or  man  steps  between  the 
opened  jaws,  thereby  pressing  a  pan  which 
frees  the  two  powerful  springs  below  the  jaws, 
the  trap  closes  instantaneously,  the  teeth  are 
locked  in  the  flesh,  cutting  sinews  and  crushing 
bone.  A  man  thus  caught  is  maimed  for  life, 
if,  indeed,  he  does  not  die  from  starvation  and 
pain  before  he  can  be  released  from  his  horrible 
imprisonment.  A  bear  usually  drags  the  trap 
until  its  anchor  catches  in  a  tree,  or  his  strength 
is  exhausted.  Sometimes  he  gnaws  off  his  foot 
and  crawls  away  bleeding  and  crippled.  The 
trap  weighs  from  twenty-five  to  forty  pounds, 
and  although  usually  marked  in  such  a  way  that 
its  owner  can  recognize  it,  no  name  betrays  the 
identity  of  the  trapper. 

The  places  chosen  by  the  bear  hunter  for  set- 
ting his  traps  are  those  to  which  a  bear  is  in  the 
habit  of  going  often.  On  damp  and  mossy 
spots  the  great  footprints  of  the  brute  show 
plainly,  and  when  the  trapper  is  satisfied  that 
Bruin  walks  that  way  habitually,  he  cuts  out  a 
square  of  moss  upon  which  the  footprint  is 
plainly  visible,  places  his  open  trap  in  the  hole, 
restores  the  moss  with  great  care,  and  goes 
away  for  a  week,  or  even  longer,  visiting  other 
traps,  some  of  which  may  be  many  miles  away. 


OLD  SHAG.  149 

If  signs  of  any  proper  kind  were  placed  near 
the  traps  to  warn  the  passer-by  of  his  peril,  there 
would  be  small  reason  to  complain  of  bear-trap- 
ping, but  unhappily  no  such  signals  are  dis- 
played, and  man,  if  he  wanders  in  wild  places, 
is  in  as  much  danger  as  the  bears.  The  brook 
bed  which  our  party  of  four  was  ascending  is 
one  of  the  best  grounds  for  bears  in  all  the 
Sandwich  range.  No  wonder,  then,  that  we 
watched  and  soimded  anxiously  for  hidden 
traps. 

As  we  walked  westward  into  the  hollow  in 
the  side  of  Paugus,  the  ground  rose  rapidly  and 
the  level  land  on  the  edges  of  the  stream  soon 
gave  way  to  steeply  sloping  banks.  For  beech, 
birch,  and  maple  were  substituted  spruce,  bal- 
sam fir,  and  hemlock;  the  rapids  of  the  brook 
changed  to  falls;  glimpses  of  sky  were  replaced 
by  occasional  peeps  at  spruce-capped  gray  cliffs 
hanging  high  above  us,  and  we  felt  as  though  if 
we  kept  on  we  should  soon  enter  the  black  inte- 
rior of  a  vast  cavern,  unless  some  unseen  avenue 
to  light  and  air  appeared.  The  barometer 
showed  that  we  had  climbed  nearly  a  thousand 
feet,  when  suddenly  there  opened  before  us  a 
view  of  a  succession  of  high,  steeply-sloping 
ledges,  polished  by  rushing  water  and  festooned 
with  delicate  mosses.  A  sheet  of  clear  and 
sparkling  water,  stained  a  rich  hemlock  brown 


150  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BKARCAMP  WATER. 

by  the  moss  beds  through  which  it  had  filtered, 
poured  in  quivering  folds  over  the  rock.  Stand- 
ing by  the  side  of  the  pool  at  the  foot  of  the 
lowest  incline,  we  could  see  four  of  these  smooth 
ledge  faces  rising  one  behind  another  above  us. 
Climbing  to  their  top,  we  saw  as  many  more  still 
higher,  and  beyond  them  all,  twin  cascades 
gleamed  through  the  trees,  as  they  fell  from  a 
ledge  in  the  middle  of  which  a  mass  of  black 
spruces  and  huge  gray  rocks  seemed  to  form  an 
island  poised  in  the  air  between  the  two  halves 
of  the  torrent. 

Nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  this  twin  fall, 
yet  so  close  beyond  it  that  my  companions  al- 
most despaired  of  further  progress  up  the  moim- 
tain,  was  a  wall  of  gray  rock  suspended  between 
the  sky  and  the  tree-tops.  It  was  the  last  re- 
doubt of  the  impregnable  Paugus.  Was  there 
a  rift  in  its  apparently  solid  face  ?  Yes,  I  knew 
that  there  must  be,  because  years  before  I  had 
come  down  this  ravine  from  the  summit  and 
had  found  no  obstacle  to  gradual  and  easy  de- 
scent. While  passing  the  falls,  we  used  the 
barometer  to  ascertain  their  approximate  height, 
and  found  a  difference  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  between  the  level  of  the  pool  at  their  foot 
and  that  of  the  stream  above  the  twin  cascades. 
The  several  inclines  down  which  the  water  shot 
in  rippling  sheets  were  each  fifty  or  sixty  feet 


CHOCORUA   SEEN   FKOM  THE   SIDE  OF  PAUGUS 


OLD  SHAG.  161 

long  and  about  twenty -five  feet  in  perpendicular 
rise.  With  a  stream  twice  or  three  times  the 
volume  of  this  brook,  Paugus  Falls  would  take 
rank  as  among  the  most  beautiful  in  New  Eng- 
land. Even  as  they  are,  they  deserve  a  place 
in  song  instead  of  obscurity  in  an  almost  un- 
known corner  of  a  pathless  mountain. 

Not  far  above  the  twin  cascades,  the  brook 
formerly  shot  over  a  polished  ledge  almost  steep 
enough  to  form  a  perfect  fall.  Here  a  very 
imusual  and  interesting  change  had  been  worked 
in  the  rock  and  the  course  of  the  water  by  the 
action  of  frost.  Just  at  the  point  where  the 
polished  rock  bed  of  the  stream  was  steepest,  a 
crack  had  opened  at  right  angles  with  the  cur- 
rent. Of  course  water  had  filled  this  fissure 
and  deepened  it  until  in  some  winter  night  a 
sound  of  rending  must  have  startled  the  forest 
and  echoed  afar  down  the  gorge.  The  front  of 
the  ledge,  measuring  twenty  yards  or  more  from 
side  to  side  and  nearly  half  that  distance  from 
top  to  bottom,  broke  from  its  ancient  foimdation 
and  slipped  forward  about  eighteen  inches,  thus 
forming  a  perpendicular  crevasse  sixty  feet  long 
and  twenty  feet  deep.  Into  this  the  stream 
plunged  and  vanished  from  sight.  Standing 
just  below  the  crevasse  and  looking  up  the 
smooth  face  of  the  ledge,  I  could  see  the  eager 
water  coming  towards  me,  hurrying  forward  its 


152  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

amber  masses,  bubbles,  sheets  of  foam,  and 
yellow  leaves  dropped  by  the  ripening  trees. 
As  it  seemed  about  to  hurl  itself  upon  me  and 
sweep  me  down  its  bed,  it  disappeared. 

When  the  water  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
crevasse,  it  turned  aside  and  flowed  at  right 
angles  to  its  course  imtil  a  fault  in  the  rock 
allowed  it  to  steal  out  into  the  daylight.  The 
crevasse  was  full  of  sounds,  and  amid  the 
splashing,  gurgling,  and  roaring  of  the  water, 
the  ear  could  fancy  that  it  detected  wild  cries, 
sobs,  and  moans. 

Above  this  rift  and  cavern  of  wild  waters 
came  many  a  rod  of  steep  climbing.  Again 
and  again  an  impassable  cliff  seemed  to  bar  our 
way,  but  each  time  the  stream  showed  us  how, 
by  a  zigzag  or  a  long  diagonal,  we  could  avoid 
the  abrupt  face  of  the  rock  and  find  a  way  to  a 
higher  level.  Finally,  after  nearly  four  hours 
of  climbing  we  found  ourselves  in  a  moist  and 
mossy  hollow  between  two  of  the  summits  of  the 
mountain.  Northward  the  rocks  rose  abruptly 
to  the  wooded  crest  of  the  highest  ridge,  south- 
ward they  rose  to  the  dome-shaped  ledge  which 
forms  the  best  height  for  observation,  wind  and 
fire  having  left  it  as  bald  as  an  eg^.  It  was 
impossible  to  cross  the  moist  hollow  dry  shod, 
for  at  no  point  was  it  less  than  a  rod  wide  and 
in  parts  it  was  forty  or  fifty  yards  from  ledge  to 


OLD  8HAG.  153 

ledge.  The  brown  water  stood  in  pools  amid 
the  sphagnum  beds  and  between  the  stems  of 
trees.  Several  paths  led  downward  between 
the  low  spruces  to  these  pools,  but  we  shunned 
them.  Human  feet  had  not  trodden  them,  un- 
less, indeed,  the  bear  hunter  had  passed  that  way 
and  set  his  traps  directly  across  them.  In  one 
place  I  saw  where  a  bear  had  recently  walked 
across  the  sphagnum,  leaving  the  imprint  of 
his  huge  foot  clearly  stamped  upon  the  moss. 

The  view  from  the  dome  of  Paugus  was  au- 
tumnal in  tone.  Great  masses  of  cold  clouds 
were  sweeping  across  the  blue  sky,  urged  for- 
ward by  a  blustering  northwest  wind.  Wher- 
ever the  spruce  growth  upon  the  moimtains  was 
interrupted  by  deciduous  trees,  delicate  shades 
of  red,  yellow,  or  russet  lay  in  patches  between 
the  sombre  tones  of  the  evergreens.  In  spots 
brilliant  scarlet  maples  stood  out  boldly,  but  as 
a  rule  the  new  colors  were  not  pronounced  but 
merely  suggestive  of  the  gorgeous  transforma- 
tion soon  to  be  perfected.  In  the  hollows,  es- 
pecially those  in  which  "harricanes"  had  been 
overgrown  by  mountain  ash,  sumac,  and  similar 
perishable  wood,  the  autumnal  tints  were  more 
prevalent  and  stronger.  The  only  flowers  upon 
the  mountain-top  were  a  few  small  asters  with 
highly  scented  leaves,  and  a  goldenrod  (jnacro' 
phylla)  with  large  blossoms  and  coarse  leaves. 


154  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

Old  Shag  is  not  high  enough  to  rival  Cho- 
corua  or  Passaconaway  with  its  views,  but  it 
affords  the  only  really  satisfactory  chance  of 
studying  those  two  mountains  from  a  point  be- 
tween them.  Chocorua  varies  strangely  in  its 
outlines  from  different  points  of  view.  From 
the  south  it  looks  like  a  huge  lion  couchant; 
from  the  Albany  intervale  it  is  an  irregular 
ridge  resembling  a  breaking  wave ;  from  Paugus 
it  seems  more  like  a  giant  fortress,  with  bat- 
tered ramparts  lifted  high  against  the  sky.  A 
slide,  invisible  from  other  points,  is  seen  to  ex- 
tend from  the  western  foot  of  the  peak  far  down 
into  the  forests  of  the  Paugus  valley.  North  of 
it  a  ridge  densely  grown  with  old  spruce  runs 
from  the  peak  northwestward.  It  is  one  of  the 
few  parts  of  Chocorua  not  given  up  to  deciduous 
trees.  Beyond  it  rises  the  Champney  Falls 
brook  which  flows  northward  into  Swift  River. 

Passaconaway  from  the  Bearcamp  valley  is 
one  of  the  most  perfect  of  pyramids ;  from  Pau- 
gus it  is  a  rough  hump  of  sinister  outline  and 
color.  The  spruces  upon  it  grow  so  thickly 
that  it  is  hard  to  force  a  way  through  them,  yet 
they  spring  from  sides  so  steep  that  it  seems  a 
marvel  that  any  soil  or  vegetation  can  cling  to 
the  rocks.  A  slide  of  great  length  shows  its 
scar  upon  the  eastern  face,  and  serves  to  em- 
phasize the  fact  that  this  side  of  Passaconaway 


OLD  SHAG.  155 

is  really  less  of  a  slope  than  of  a  continuous 
precipice  nearly  three  thousand  feet  from  sum- 
mit to  plain.  In  these  almost  inaccessible  for- 
ests several  birds  from  the  Canadian  fauna  are 
occasionally  found.  I  have  seen  there  in  sum- 
mer both  kinds  of  the  three-toed  woodpeckers ; 
Canada  grouse  or  spruce  partridges  have  been 
shot  there  this  autumn,  and  the  moose-bird,  or 
Canada  jay,  is  occasionally  seen  near  the  lum- 
ber camps. 

In  descending  a  mountain  in  the  afternoon 
which  has  been  climbed  in  the  morning,  many 
new  effects  of  light  and  shade,  color,  and  even 
of  outline,  are  observable.  This  may  be  puz- 
zling to  the  guide  who  does  not  thoroughly  know 
his  path,  but  it  is  the  one  redeeming  feature  in 
a  homeward  scramble  to  those  who  are  weary 
enough  to  regard  their  second  view  of  a  moun- 
tain-side as  an  anti-climax  to  the  triumphant 
ascent  of  a  new  peak.  Paugus  Falls  were  more 
beautiful  with  the  pallor  of  the  afternoon  around 
them,  than  they  were  with  the  southeastern  sun 
shining  into  their  rushing  bubbles.  They  were 
whiter  and  the  water  consequently  looked 
greater  in  volume.  Again  we  wondered  how 
such  rare  beauty  could  have  been  hidden  so 
long  in  an  untrodden  forest,  and,  wondering, 
we  blazed  the  trees  so  that  those  who  might 
come  after  us  could  follow  without  perplexity 


156    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

the  easy  and  beautiful  way  which  we  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  find. 

When  we  reached  the  old  trail,  about  five 
o'clock,  the  woods  seemed  dark  and  the  pene- 
trating coolness  of  an  autumn  night  was  in  the 
air.  Twenty  minutes  later  we  emerged  in  the 
blackberry  tangle  by  the  abandoned  saw-mill, 
and  found  wagons  and  warm  wraps  waiting  for 
us.  As  we  looked  back  towards  the  golden 
sunset,  the  dark  dome  of  Old  Shag  stood  boldly 
out  against  the  sky.  Fire  and  wind  had  left 
scars  upon  its  face,  and  nature  originally  made 
it  so  rough  in  outline  that  "Toadback"  is  tell- 
ingly descriptive  of  its  shape.  Toads  have 
their  jewels,  and  so  has  Paugus,  hidden  iu  the 
shadows  of  its  eastern  flank. 


MT  HEART'S   IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

No  matter  how  tightly  the  body  may  be 
chained  to  the  wheel  of  daily  duties,  the  spirit 
is  free,  if  it  so  pleases,  to  cancel  space  and  to 
bear  itself  away  from  noise  and  vexation  into 
the  secret  places  of  the  moimtains.  Well  it  is 
for  him  who  labors  early  and  late  at  the  desk, 
if  his  soul  can  thus  spread  its  wings  and  soar 
to  deep  forests,  clear  lakes,  and  rugged  moun- 
tain peaks,  drawing  from  memory,  imagination, 
and  sweet  forecast,  something  to  inspire  itself 
to  patient  action,  and  something  to  strengthen 
the  heart  in  its  wish  to  do  its  appointed  task 
manfully.  As  these  bright  October  days  slip 
by  and  my  wheel  of  daily  duties  spins  round 
and  round  in  that  granite  prison  called  Univer- 
sity Hall,  my  memory  takes  me  back  to  fair 
Chocorua.  I  remember  the  6th  of  October  in 
the  year  1884.  The  sun  struggled  through  soft 
gray  clouds  and  gazed  upon  a  world  of  magical 
opposites.  Every  maple  in  a  hundred  town- 
ships blazed  with  scarlet  or  gold ;  yet  soft  and 
cold,  wrapping  the  earth  from  Chocorua' s  horn 
to  the  sand  at  the  lake  shore,  the  first  snow  of 


158    AT  THE  NORTE  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

autumn  sparkled  in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun. 
Skies  of  blue,  forests  of  fire,  fields  of  snow,  — 
those  were  the  delights  of  that  matchless  Octo- 
ber dawning. 

If  the  wheel  grows  too  noisy  I  come  back  from 
these  visions  to  my  desk  and  its  papers,  and 
open  dozens  of  letters  from  all  over  our  broad 
country,  from  Europe,  Japan,  Mexico,  and  from 
distant  India,  whence  some  Harvard  soldier  of 
the  Cross  writes  to  ask  tidings  of  his  alma 
mater.  In  his  day  every  John  knew  every 
William,  and  the  roll  of  the  University  never 
climbed  beyond  the  himdreds.  Now  the  ques- 
tioner at  my  side  wonders  how  near  we  shall 
come  to  having  three  thousand  students  this 
year;  while  the  prophet  declares  that  in  five 
years  or  less  Harvard  will  have  distanced  Cam- 
bridge and  Oxford,  and  become  the  greatest 
English-speaking  University  in  the  world. 
Even  now  her  students  do  not  all  speak  Eng- 
lish. Aside  from  the  scores  of  American 
youths  who  hear  only  light-weight  silver  dollar 
English  at  home,  and  who  learn  little  that  is 
better  at  school,  there  are  many  who  come  to 
Harvard  from  far-away  foreign  homes.  The 
tall  Bulgarian  with  his  dark  eyes  full  of  poetry 
and  fire;  the  patient  Russian  Jew,  exiled  from 
a  cruel  land,  and  struggling  night  and  day  to 
win  an  education  and  a  fortune  in  the  home  of 


CROWLANDS,  FORMERLY  THE  OLD  DOE  FARM 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.        159 

the  free;  the  dashing  young  Norwegian,  with 
winning,  deferential  manners  and  a  light  in  his 
blue  eyes  which  speaks  of  his  own  glaciers  and 
dark  fjords;  the  gifted  Japanese,  absorbing 
philosophy  or  science  with  such  readiness  as  to 
make  his  slower  American  competitor  blush 
with  shame;  the  angular  Armenian,  with  his 
keen,  thin  face  and  nervous  hands;  the  self- 
possessed  Costa  Rican,  the  moody  Icelander 
and  his  taciturn  but  clear-headed  neighbor  from 
Newfoundland,  —  all  are  beside  me  taking  turns 
with  their  American  fellow-students  in  hurry- 
ing my  wheel  until  the  day  is  done. 

When  the  day  is  done,  and  pale  sunset  colors 
lie  in  the  sky  behind  the  witching  iron  tracery 
in  the  great  western  gateway,  my  soul  goes 
northward  again  into  that  other  October  when 
the  early  snow  melted,  and  the  winds  blew  in 
the  fair  Chocorua  land.  I  go  back  to  a  gusty 
afternoon  when  we  rowed  our  boat  the  length 
of  the  lakes  and  landed  upon  the  silent  shore  of 
the  old  Doe  farm.  It  was  our  first  visit  to  the 
white  sand  of  that  beach,  to  the  little  footpath 
leading  upward  through  the  orchard,  and  to  the 
tumble-down  cottage  with  its  huge  chimney, 
in  which  the  swifts  had  found  no  smoke  for 
twenty  long  years.  Our  first  visit,  —  yet  now 
the  anchor  of  life  is  so  strongly  fixed  on  that 
shore,  and  the  family  fairies  so  firmly  domiciled 


160    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

on  that  hearth,  that  our  first  voyage  of  discov- 
ery seems  as  far  off  as  the  time  when  "Kit 
Colombus  sailed  from  the  Papal  See." 

We  wandered  through  the  rooms  of  the  cot- 
tage, peeped  at  the  sky  through  the  cracks  in 
its  roof,  noted  the  pewee's  nest  on  the  wains- 
coting in  the  east  room,  and  whirled  the  old 
flax-wheel  which  stood  in  the  dark  attic.  Then, 
passing  the  ancient  maples  behind  the  great 
barn,  we  strolled  on  and  on  through  the  pas- 
tures until  a  faint  path  led  us  to  the  lonely  lake 
among  the  dingles,  almost  at  the  foot  of  Cho- 
corua.  Softly  descending  the  steep  path  to  the 
edge  of  the  green  water,  we  saw  five  black  ducks 
rise  from  the  lake  and  fly  from  us  over  the  oaks. 
The  rush  of  their  wings  is  in  my  ears  to  this 
day,  and  my  eyes  recall  the  clouds  which  loomed 
over  the  peak  and  swept  down  upon  the  lake, 
bringing  much  cold  wind  and  a  little  rain. 
From  the  storm-clouds  a  small  hawk  came  cir- 
cling down  towards  the  troubled  water  and 
tossing  birches.  As  he  soared  above  us,  seem- 
ingly protesting  against  our  coming  into  the 
charmed  vale,  I  shot  him.  The  strong  wings 
gave  one  spasmodic  beat,  the  fierce  head  fell 
forward,  and  the  body  shot  downward  and 
struck  the  sand  at  our  feet.  We  had  claimed 
dominion  by  force  of  arms,  and  when  we  next 
saw  the  lake,  it  was  ours  in  law. 


MT  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.        161 

The  wheel  turns  fastest  in  the  University 
prison  house  when  pale  boys  and  gaunt  young 
men  come  to  me  with  confidences  of  their  life- 
long hope  to  come  to  fair  Harvard,  of  mothers' 
sacrifices,  and  fathers'  toil,  of  the  parson's 
chiding  against  the  influence  of  the  non-secta- 
rian college,  and  the  schoolmaster's  prophecy 
that  Cambridge  will  be  all  proud  looks  and  cold 
hearts,  and  finally  of  their  own  determination 
to  work  their  way  through,  no  matter  what  the 
cost  in  comfort  and  energy.  It  is  the  same 
soul-stirring  story,  whether  it  speaks  from  the 
butternut-colored  coat  from  Georgia,  the  coarse 
gray  homespun  from  Cape  Breton,  or  the  shiny, 
long-tailed  black  frock  from  Nebraska.  Be- 
seeching, honest,  or  searching  eyes  look  straight 
into  the  heart,  and  the  heart  would  not  be  good 
for  much  if  it  did  not  grow  warmer  under  their 
scrutiny.  Generally  all  except  the  least  useful 
and  adaptable  of  such  men  find  ways  of  earning 
much  of  that  which  is  needed  to  keep  them 
decently  clad  and  safely  fed  during  their  years 
of  study;  but  it  is  anxious  work  starting  them 
on  self-support,  and  helping  them  to  drive 
away  homesickness. 

There  is  a  feeling  of  gritting  sand  and  the  \ 
lack  of  oil  in  the  wheel  when  purse-proud,  over- 
dressed, loud-voiced,  tired-eyed  youths  drift  to 
me  in  their  attempts  to  escape  parts  of  their 


162    AT  THE  NORTH   OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

college  duties.  They  have  come  from  shoddy 
homes  to  mix  shoddy  with  the  honest  stuff  of 
Harvard  life.  It  would  be  better  for  them,  for 
us,  and  for  all  their  associates,  if  they  never  set 
foot  on  scholastic  ground.  Still  they  serve  as 
a  foil  to  the  noble-hearted  men  of  wealth  who 
are  the  glory  of  a  college,  —  men  who  are  strong 
in  their  willingness  to  aid  others,  pure  in  heart, 
active  in  body,  loyal  to  the  ideals  of  the  Uni- 
\  versity. 

One  reason  that  the  wheel  of  duty  turns  hard 
is  to  be  found  in  the  multitude  of  human  atoms 
pressing  against  it.  The  present  system  of  col- 
lege government  was  well  adapted  for  the  man- 
agement of  five  or  six  hundred  men,  for  it  is  an 
easy  task  for  an  officer  of  keen  sympathies  and 
a  good  memory  to  carry  even  more  than  six 
hundred  men  in  his  mind,  and  to  know  their 
faces,  names,  and  general  record.  Now  that 
the  six  hundred  have  become  two  thousand,  and 
the  same  system  is  applied,  each  officer  being 
expected  to  know  something  of  every  student, 
the  memory  gives  way,  interest  weakens,  and 
discipline  through  acquaintance  becomes  im- 
possible. Here  and  there  individual  students 
stand  out  conspicuously  and  become  well-known 
figures  in  the  crowd;  but  it  is  more  likely  to  be 
through  their  success  in  football  than  in  their 
studies.    The  man  who  attains  "  Grade  A"  in  all 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.        163 

his  studies  may  be  dull-eyed  and  dingy ;  but  the 
half-back  on  the  university  eleven  cannot  fail  to 
have  in  him  some  of  the  qualities  of  the  hero. 

On  the  football  field  of  a  Saturday  afternoon 
I  am  less  likely  to  let  my  thoughts  wander  away 
to  Chocorua  than  when  at  my  desk.  Something 
akin  to  the  wild  north  wind  seems  surging  down 
old  Jarvis  when  the  crimson  rush-line  guards 
its  bunch  of  ball-carriers  as  they  fly  round  the 
left  end,  blocking,  interfering,  sweeping  down 
opposing  arms,  hurling  themselves  against 
crouching  tacklers,  and  finally  falling  across 
the  line  for  the  triumphant  touchdown.  That 
Chocorua  north  wind  is  as  irresistible  in  its 
way,  when  in  October  it  hurls  itself  from  the 
mountains  and  lashes  the  lake  till  foam  flies  in 
white  masses  over  the  crests  of  the  breaking 
waves.  Such  winds  often  arise  suddenly,  and 
in  a  moment  change  the  placid  water,  full  of 
its  reflections  of  gay  forest  and  lofty  peak,  into 
a  turbulent  mass  of  waves.  I  well  remember  a 
soft,  hazy  morning  when  we  rowed  a  heavy  flat- 
bottomed  boat  to  the  northern  end  of  the  lake, 
returning  about  noon.  When  in  the  middle  of 
the  pond,  the  wind  caught  us,  and,  turning  the 
boat  sideways,  drove  it  towards  a  shallow  cove 
lined  with  boulders.  Every  wave  dashed  spray 
and  water  over  the  gunwales,  and  the  most  vig- 
orous rowing  availed  nothing  against  the  furi- 


164    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

0U8  wind.  It  was  not  until  I  could  jump  over- 
board in  the  shoal  water  and  push  the  boat 
before  me  out  of  the  wind  that  I  really  regained 
the  mastery  of  it. 

About  the  middle  of  October  a  vast  regiment 
of  birds  passes  over  the  Bearcamp  valley.  On 
the  13th  of  October,  1889,  I  counted  and  recog- 
nized 488  birds.  Of  these,  173  were  crows, 
flying  from  the  northeast  towards  the  southwest 
in  two  great  flocks.  They  passed  far  above  the 
forests,  many  of  them  being  much  above  the 
tops  of  the  highest  mountains.  On  the  same 
day  I  coimted  143  j  uncos,  which  were  peppered 
all  over  fields,  roads,  small  thickets,  pasture 
bushes,  and  woods  of  small  height.  Wherever 
we  strolled  the  little  cowled  heads  turned  to 
watch  us,  or  the  white  V-shaped  tail-feathers 
flashed  as  the  juncos  flew  from  us.  The  white- 
throated  sparrows  were  almost  always  with  them, 
coming,  I  doubt  not,  from  the  same  breeding- 
grounds,  and  bent  upon  reaching  the  same 
winter-quarters,  or  havens  even  farther  south 
than  those  which  juncos  like.  Now  and  then  a 
white-crowned  sparrow  is  to  be  seen  among 
flocks  of  this  kind.  Those  who  watch  for  them 
are  apt  to  see  many  white-throats,  which  they 
try  to  persuade  themselves  are  the  rarer  species, 
but  when  the  eye  at  last  rests  upon  a  white- 
crown  there  is  no  doubting  his  identity. 


MT  HEART  'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.        165 

The  golden-crested  kinglets  were  present  in 
great  numbers  on  the  same  13th  of  October, 
1889,  and  as  they  passed  through  the  evergreens 
they  accomplished  a  marvelous  amount  of  effec- 
tive house-cleaning.  With  them  or  near  them 
chickadees,  red  nuthatches,  white  nuthatches, 
and  brown  creepers  took  part  in  the  keen  in- 
spection of  the  trees,  and  woe  came  to  the  in- 
sect which  fell  under  their  eyes. 

Among  the  other  birds  which  I  recorded  that 
day  were  robins,  a  hermit  thrush,  bluebirds, 
yellow-rumped  warblers,  solitary  vireos,  a  flock 
of  thirty -five  goldfinches,  a  good  many  sparrows 
of  various  kinds,  blue  jays,  one  or  two  kinds  of 
woodpeckers,  several  hawks,  and  a  flock  of  black 
ducks.  They  formed  the  rear  guard  of  the 
grand  army,  and  as  the  leaves  rustled  down  over 
them  it  was  easy  to  imagine  snowflakes  gather- 
ing in  the  northern  clouds  and  waiting  for  a 
summons  to  begin  their  soft  descent  upon  the 
abandoned  earth. 

Bird  voices  sometimes  mingle  with  the  hum 
and  roar  of  my  duty -wheel.  Opposite  my  office 
window  are  two  tall  pine-trees,  almost  the  only 
evergreens  in  the  college  yard.  These  trees 
swarm  with  the  alien  sparrows,  whose  clamor  at 
times  is  almost  deafening.  Better  three  months 
of  utter  silence  than  such  bird  music  as  this. 
Each  year,  as  autumn  deepens  into  winter,  I 


166  AT  THE  NORTE  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

watch  the  immigrant  sparrow  to  see  whether  he 
is  not  learning  that  migration  southward  in  the 
season  of  snow  is  wise  and  comfortable.  He 
does  wander  somewhat,  already,  when  food  fails, 
and  it  will  not  be  strange  if,  as  years  pass,  he 
should  acquire  by  sympathetic  vibration  some- 
thing of  the  swing  of  the  migratory  pendulum. 

When  I  walk  slowly  home  from  my  office 
past  Christ  Church  and  the  silent  field  of 
quaintly  lettered  stones,  past  the  old  elm  within 
whose  shade  Washington  took  command  of  the 
Colonial  army,  and  past  Cotton  Mather's  gold 
chanticleer  holding  high  his  ancient  head  against 
the  rosy  afterglow,  I  seem  to  see  beyond  all 
these  things  the  crouching  lion  of  Chocorua. 
Waking  or  dreaming,  the  outline  of  that  peak  is 
always  stamped  upon  my  northern  horizon,  and 
the  north  is  the  point  to  which  my  face  turns  as 
surely  as  does  the  needle,  whenever  my  face, 
like  the  needle,  is  left  to  settle  its  direction  in 
accordance  with  its  controlling  affinities.  In 
these  October  days  the  picture  of  Chocorua 
which  haunts  me  is  not  a  summer  picture.  Far 
from  it.  In  it  the  leaves  are  falling,  drifting 
down  like  snow,  birds  are  silent,  nervous,  al- 
ways on  the  alert  for  danger ;  new  ledges  show 
upon  the  mountain-sides,  new  vistas  have  opened 
through  the  forests,  and  spots  which,  when  be- 
hind their  August  leaf  mantles  seemed  dark  and 


MT  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.       167 

secret,  are  now  as  open  as  the  day.  The  brooks 
are  more  noisy,  and  easily  seen,  the  grouse  fly 
afar  off ;  if  one  wishes  a  flower  he  must  pluck 
the  witch-hazel  or  let  the  bitter  yarrow  or  the 
last  clusters  of  goldenrod  and  asters  satisfy  him. 
Nature  seems  preoccupied  and  inclined  to  tell 
the  visitor  to  see  what  he  wants,  and  to  take 
what  he  can  find,  but  to  let  her  alone. 


THE  VINTAGE   OF  THE  LEAVES. 

Friday,  October  21,  was  observed  by  Har- 
vard University  as  a  holiday,  —  Columbus,  while 
hunting  for  something  else,  having  on  that  day, 
four  hundred  years  ago,  rediscovered  America 
for  the  Europeans.  On  the  same  day,  four 
hundred  years  ago,  the  Americans  discovered 
Columbus,  a  weary  and  worn  mariner,  nearing 
the  shore  in  a  small  and  feebly -rigged  ship.  At 
that  time  America  was  much  more  of  a  boon  to 
the  explorer  than  he  seemed  likely  to  be  to  the 
continent. 

I  left  Cambridge  about  the  time  the  sun 
reached  it,  and  gained  the  valley  of  the  Bear- 
camp  at  1  p.  M.  There  are  some  days  in  the 
year  which  seem  to  have  happened  upon  the 
wrong  calendar  day.  They  are  too  cold  or  too 
warm  to  keep  company  with  the  days  which  go 
before  and  after.  This  was  not  one  of  them. 
It  was  a  model  late  October  day,  with  clear  air, 
a  rushing  wind,  dark  blue-gray  clouds  moving 
fast  across  a  pale  blue  sky,  leaves  flying  before 
the  wind,  and  with  ruffled  water  full  of  cold 
lights,  though  in  spots  increasing  in  its  reflec- 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  169 

tions  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Marvelous  colors 
were  spread  upon  the  face  of  the  meadows,  and 
crept  up  the  sides  of  the  hills.  The  world  was 
in  gay  attire,  gayer  even  than  the  towns  this 
day  decked  out  in  honor  of  the  Genoese. 

Gazing  out  of  the  train  window,  I  have  seen 
the  Sandwich  range  from  afar  over  the  melting 
greens  of  spring,  the  rich  verdure  of  summer, 
and  the  cold,  still  snow  of  winter.    To-day  I 
saw  it  framed  in  russet  and  carmine,  —  the  col- 
ors of  the   oak-clad   hills  of  Wakefield.     The 
peak  of  Chocorua  was  capped  by  a  dark  slate- 
colored  cloud  from  which  rain  seemed  to  be  fall- 
ing.    Behind  or  above  the  other  mountains  of 
the  range  the  same  threatening  vapors  hung. 
As  the  train  sped  onward,  past  Ossipee  Lake, 
over  the  Bearcamp,  and  up  to  the  West  Ossipee 
station,  the  clouds  rolled  away  and  a  flood  of 
clear  sunlight  poured  its  revealing  rays  into  the 
hidden  colors  of  the  distant  forests.    From  cold, 
dark  masses  in  which  black  rocks  were  no  darker 
than  gloomy  groves,  the  mountains'  sides  sud- 
denly became   aglow  with  warm  tones.      The 
far-reaching  view  suggested  a  painter's  palette, 
upon  which  he  had  been  daubing  his  colors  from 
the  tubes.     Here  he  laid  on  a  mass  of  dark 
green,  there  crimson,  and  next  to  it  pale  yellow. 
Then  buff  and  orange,  scarlet  and  blood  -  red 
pleased  him,  and  he  rubbed  them  upon  spare 


170  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

areas.  Cobalt  and  ultramarine  added  here  and 
there,  with  now  and  then  a  dash  of  silvery  white 
or  a  broad  band  of  burnt  sienna,  served  to  make 
the  scarlets  more  intense  and  the  yellows  more 
aggressive. 

Driving  in  an  open  wagon  from  West  Ossipee 
to  the  Chocorua  House,  I  found  a  heavy  over-  ' 
coat,  warm  gloves,  and  a  fur  robe  essential  to 
comfort,  especially  on  coming  from  the  steam- 
heated  cars  into  the  racing  northwest  wind.  As 
we  sped  through  groves  and  across  meadows, 
my  eyes  devoured  the  wonderful  coloring  of  all 
that  had  once  been  green.  I  could  see  nothing 
else,  think  of  nothing  else.  The  contrast  to 
our  summer  coloring  could  not  have  been  much 
sharper  if  I  had  been  transported  to  the  san- 
guinary groves  and  pastures  of  the  red  planet 
Mars.  Even  the  birds  which  rose  from  the 
roadside  and  whirled  away  before  the  wind 
seemed  less  interesting,  so  absorbing  were  the 
marvels  of  coloring  in  foliage  from  ancient  oak 
to  tender  grasses.  A  flock  of  birds  seemed  to 
dance  through  the  sunlight  across  the  road,  yet 
when  I  looked  after  them  they  were  only  beech 
leaves  hurried  along  by  the  wind.  A  cloud 
of  leaves,  picked  up  by  an  eddy  of  the  air  and 
tossed  high  above  the  trees,  suddenly  became 
bluebirds  and  sparrows  speeding  away  from 
the  wagon  across  the  pasture.     Crows,  few  in 


THE  VINTAGE   OF  THE  LEAVES.  171 

number,  and  unusually  wary,  were  not  so  easily 
mistaken  for  leaves,  nor  were  the  robins,  which 
occasionally  rose  in  flocks  from  the  grass  and 
sought  the  branches  of  leafless  maples  or  butter- 
nuts. 

After  a  hasty  dinner  I  left  the  hotel  and 
crossed  field  and  copse  to  the  outlet  of  the  Cho- 
corua  lakes.  The  third  lake,  with  its  deep, 
dark  water  and  its  grove  of  lofty  white  pines 
shutting  it  in  from  distant  views,  is  one  of  the 
most  daintily  lovely  nooks  in  this  region  of 
beauty  and  grandeur.  Crows  love  the  dark 
pines,  wild  ducks  float  in  their  shadows,  and 
many  a  mink  has  been  trapped  at  the  end  of 
the  dam.  I  found  no  life  stirring  in  woods  or 
water,  so  stepping  cautiously  along  the  moul- 
dering logs  of  the  dam,  I  gained  the  farther 
shore  and  crossed  a  broad,  rock-strewn  pasture, 
once  covered  by  a  growth  of  lofty  pines.  I 
know  not  how  many  years  ago  they  fell  or  were 
felled,  but  this  I  do  know,  that  scores  of  pitch- 
soaked  knots  are  hidden  in  their  ruins  and 
among  the  ferns  and  bushes  which  have  sprung 
from  the  decaying  stumps.  Many  is  the  winter 
evening  in  town  that  I  have  sat  by  the  fireside 
and  gazed  into  the  red  flame  of  the  blazing 
"light-wood"  gathered  in  happy  October  days 
from  this  old  pasture.  As  the  pitch  grew  hot 
and  burst  through  the  dry  wood,  whining  and 


172  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP   WATER. 

whistling,  blowing  out  long  jets  of  white  smoke 
and  slender  tongues  of  flame,  its  voice  and 
warmth  have  carried  me  back  in  spirit  to  the 
brown  beds  of  fern,  the  busy  chipmunks  under 
the  old  oak  in  the  wall,  or  to  the  mayflowers 
gathered  in  spring  from  the  edges  of  the  linger- 
ing snow-banks.  I  passed  a  ledge  of  rocks  on 
which  I  had  seen  a  woodchuck  sunning  himself 
last  August,  and  I  recalled  how  he  had  squeezed 
himself  into  a  little  cave  in  the  ledge  only  to 
find  me  peering  in  after  him,  and  quite  able  to 
reach  him  with  a  stick.  His  method  of  escape 
from  me  was  characteristic.  Grunting  and 
snarling,  he  spent  half  his  time  in  threatening 
to  come  out  and  attack  me,  and  the  other  half 
in  undermining  himself  and  poking  the  earth 
with  his  nose  into  the  hole  through  which  I 
was  looking.  In  five  minutes  he  had  completely 
covered  the  opening  and  sunk  his  plump  body 
out  of  reach  of  my  probe.  Later  in  the  season 
I  had  a  young  woodchuck  which  had  been  partly 
tamed  escape  from  captivity  by  gnawing  his 
way  through  a  thick  pine  board.  The  same 
individual  repeatedly  climbed  up  six  feet  from 
the  floor  on  the  coarse  wire  netting  which  formed 
the  front  of  his  cage,  so  that  in  future  I  shall 
not  think  it  strange  if  I  see  a  woodchuck  climb 
a  tree.  His  eccentricity  also  carried  him  to 
the  point  of  devouring  nearly  a  third  of  the 


TEE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  173 

carcass  of  a  freshly-killed  red  squirrel,  although 
an  abundance  of  clover  and  young  vegetables 
were  close  at  hand  ready  for  his  dinner. 

My  walk  took  me  up  the  western  side  of  the 
lake  to  my  own  land  and  cottage.  Robins  rose 
from  the  ground  in  small  flocks,  a  few  tree 
sparrows  and  j  uncos  flew  from  a  plowed  field 
by  the  wall,  and  two  crows  were  feeding  on 
swampy  ground  by  a  brook.  It  was  to  them 
that  the  land  really  belonged,  not  to  me,  —  a 
waif  from  the  city.  So  a  flock  of  white-throats 
thought,  as  I  disturbed  them  feeding  upon  the 
chaff  at  the  back  door  of  my  barn.  They  flew 
into  a  bush  on  which  a  few  dry  leaves  swimg. 
While  still  watching  them,  as  I  supposed,  I  dis- 
covered that  they  had  vanished,  the  wagging 
leaves  alone  remaining.  In  the  orchard  a  few 
red  apples  hung,  and  gleamed  like  polished 
stones.  One  which  grew  upon  a  wild  tree  in 
the  edge  of  the  wood  swung  near  the  ground, 
and  sharp  little  teeth  had  bitten  out  pieces  from 
its  side.  Some  of  the  fruit  which  lay  upon  the 
ground  had  been  gnawed  away  until  its  seeds 
could  be  reached.  Man  eats  the  pulp  and 
throws  away  the  seeds,  the  mice  and  squirrels 
waste  the  pericarp  solely  to  gain  the  seeds. 
Perhaps  in  this  case  man  would  have  thrown 
away  both  apple  and  seeds  had  he  tasted  the 
bitter,  wild  fruit. 


174  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

The  lake  was  lower  by  a  foot  than  I  had  ever 
before  seen  it  in  the  autumn.  In  August  it  had 
washed  the  bushes  on  its  dikes ;  now  a  yard  or 
more  of  sand  tempted  a  stroller  to  follow  its  fair 
rim  past  wood  and  meadow.  Along  my  shore 
of  the  lake  the  natural  dike  is  in  places  fully 
seven  feet  high.  It  has  been  made  during  the 
centuries  by  the  "thrust"  of  the  ice  which  re- 
sults from  the  expansion  of  the  ice-field  by  day 
following  its  contraction  by  night.  On  a  sandy 
shore  the  expanding  ice  pushes  up  a  little  ridge 
of  silt,  and  works  it  higher  and  higher  as  the  ice 
mass  rises  during  the  winter.  If  the  edge  of 
the  ice  meets  an  obstacle,  it  is  apt  to  break  at  a 
foot  or  more  from  the  shore,  and  the  pieces,  still 
carrying  their  load  of  gravel,  are  shoved  up  the 
bank  to  its  top,  until,  as  years  roll  by,  the  dike 
is  made  too  high  to  receive  further  additions. 

The  lake  in  summer  is  certain  to  be  stirring 
with  life.  Insects  upon  and  over  the  water, 
fish,  frogs,  birds,  muskrats,  and  often  large 
animals  are  in  sight  and  moving  both  by  day 
and  by  night.  Now,  as  the  waning  sun  grew 
pale  behind  the  birches,  no  living  creature 
moved.  The  yellow  leaves  drifted  out  upon  the 
breeze,  and  kept  on  drifting  across  the  ruffled 
water.  Nothing  cared  where  they  drifted. 
They  were  dead,  and  just  then  all  the  world 
seemed  full  of  falling,  drifting  leaves,  with  no 


TWILIGHT  ON  THE   LAKE 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  175 

one  to  notice  them  or  care  for  them.  Were 
they  to  blame  for  the  feeling  of  sadness  which 
crept  over  me  as  the  sun  went  down  and  the 
first  chill  of  night  came  into  the  air?  Or  was 
it  the  absence  of  those  who  might,  had  they 
been  by  the  lake,  have  enjoyed  the  placid  twi- 
light with  me?  No  lights  gleamed  behind  the 
closed  blinds  of  my  home,  no  fire  crackled  upon 
the  hearth.  Those  whom  I  loved  were  far  away 
in  the  city.  Leaves  were  falling  in  the  city, 
birds  had  fled  from  it  as  well  as  from  the  moun- 
tains. Chilly  night  had  fallen  there  too,  and 
with  it  came,  not  the  sweetness  of  clear  streams 
and  pine  groves,  but  the  foul  breath  of  the 
Charles  and  of  Alewife  Brook,  open  sewers  of 
filthy  towns.  No,  it  was  not  the  sadness  of  the 
season  or  the  influence  of  drifting  leaves  which 
cast  a  little  shadow  over  my  enjoyment  of  the 
exquisite  scene  before  me.  It  was  regret  at 
being  alone  in  its  presence  and  of  having  to 
leave  it  so  soon  in  favor  of  desk  and  drudgery. 
At  ten  minutes  past  five,  planets  sparkled  in 
the  silvery  sky,  yet  a  mile  away  the  colors  of 
oaks  and  poplars  still  burned  their  way  to  me 
through  the  clear  air.  As  I  walked  back  to  the 
hotel,  I  noticed  more  clearly  the  number  of 
trees  which  had  lost  their  leaves.  By  daylight 
they  were  inconspicuous,  flanked  and  backed  as 
they  had  been  by  evergreens  and  trees  full  of 


176  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

showy  color.  Now  they  reared  their  skeleton 
arms  against  the  sky,  making  some  parts  of  the 
way  seem  as  desolate  as  in  winter.  Many  of 
the  goldenrods,  asters,  and  immortelles  contri- 
buted to  the  wintriness  of  the  scene,  for  only 
dry  white  phantoms  of  their  once  cheerful  flow- 
ers remained  upon  their  stalks.  The  soft  air 
with  only  a  trace  of  cold  in  it  belied  these  signs 
of  winter,  and  so  did  the  occasional  note  of  a  lo- 
cust. From  the  little  rustic  bridge  between  the 
large  and  second  lakes,  the  evening  view  of  the 
mountains  was  bewitching.  If  a  hermit  thrush 
could  have  sung  even  one  phrase  of  his  holy 
music,  I  might  have  felt  satisfied ;  but  no  bird 
'  was  there  to  sing,  and  only  the  waves  lapping 
upon  the  pebbles  and  the  breeze  sighing  in  the 
pines  broke  the  silence  of  the  starlit  night.  A 
leaf  came  sailing  down  the  lake  and  passed  un- 
der the  bridge.  Its  little  life  as  a  green  leaf 
was  over.  It  had  served  the  tree  which  bore 
it,  and  now  its  parched  body  was  given  to  the 
stream  to  be  borne  away  wherever  wind  and  cur- 
rent decided.  Was  it,  then,  dead  for  all  time? 
Ask  this  of  the  coal  which  glows  in  the  grate, 
the  oil  which  burns  in  the  lamp,  or  the  may- 
flower  whose  roots  spread  through  the  leaf  mould 
in  the  forest.  Where  was  this  leaf  a  year  ago, 
or  a  century  ago?  As  certainly  as  the  parts  of 
this  leaf  have  endured  thus  far,  so  certainly  will 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  TEE  LEAVES.  177 

they  continue  to  endure  in  ages  to  come.  It 
seems  equally  sure  that  if  there  is  a  something 
in  me  which  will  not  and  cannot  in  time  be 
made  into  leaves  to  wither  and  go  down-stream 
with  the  wind,  then  that  something  will  neces- 
sarily have  as  good  a  chance  as  the  leaf  to  go 
down  a  stream  of  its  own  and  bring  up  safely 
where  it  can  be  used  again  in  endless  cycles. 

The  voices  of  young  chickens  awoke  me  next 
morning,  and  mingling  with  their  melancholy 
peeping  came  the  wailing  of  a  northeast  wind  as 
it  struggled  through  a  window  crack.  Bed  was 
warm  and  my  watch  said  it  was  only  six  o'clock. 
I  peeped  through  my  blinds  and  saw  that  the 
piazza  roof  seemed  to  be  shining  with  rain. 
Nothing  but  the  momentum  of  a  previous  de- 
termination to  open  my  shutters  led  my  finger 
to  press  the  snap  and  let  the  wind  swing  the 
blind  from  me :  for  by  the  dismal  shining  of  the 
rain  my  mind  had  been  completely  robbed  of 
any  wish  to  see  the  sky.  The  blind  slammed 
against  the  clapboards  and  a  bewildering  sea  of 
color  surged  across  my  vision.  Instead  of  a 
waste  of  gray  mist  and  dull  wet  field,  I  saw  six 
mountains  set  against  a  silver  sky ;  and  rolling 
from  them  towards  me,  line  after  line  of  wave- 
like wooded  ridges  and  pasture  slopes,  each 
more  brilliant  in  coloring  than  the  last.  The 
sunlight    was  just    touching  a   solitary  cloud 


178  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

which  floated  feather-like  above  Paugus,  and  a 
delicate  sea-shell  pink  suffused  it.  Some  of 
the  same  radiance  fell  upon  the  granite  peak  of 
Chocorua,  floated  over  the  highest  ridges  of 
spruce-himg  Paugus  and  Passaconaway,  warmed 
the  naked  shoulder  of  Whiteface,  and  touched 
even  the  dark  head  of  the  Sandwich  Dome 
rising  from  the  Pemigewasset  forests.  The 
flanks  of  these  mountains  and  the  whole  of 
Mount  Whittier,  which  rose  in  the  southwest, 
were  violet.  A  moment  before  they  might  have 
been  dark  purple,  but  now  the  rosy  rays  of 
dawn  were  stealing  down  them  swiftly.  I  had 
scarcely  time  to  note  the  wealth  of  suppressed 
color  which  lay  upon  the  wave-like  hills  between 
me  and  the  mountains,  or  to  spring  to  my  north 
window,  fling  its  blinds  wide  open,  and  see  the 
lake  so  ruffled  by  the  wind  and  so  hidden  from 
the  coming  dawn  as  to  be  only  the  quicksilver 
side  of  the  mirror,  before  the  sunlight  began 
creeping  down  the  moimtain-sides. 

It  is  a  pretty  sight  in  the  twilight  or  dark- 
ness to  see  a  rosy  edge  of  flame  play  along  the 
margin  of  a  sheet  of  burning  paper,  slowly  de- 
vouring it.  Some  parts  of  the  paper  burn  more 
brightly  than  others,  but  the  whole  line  of  ad- 
vancing fire  is  beautiful  and  animating.  So  it 
was  with  the  line  of  sunlight  slowly  passing 
from  the   rosy  crests  of  the  high  mountains, 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  179 

downward,  with  even  march  across  their  flanks, 
their  projecting  spurs,  then  the  nearer  hills, 
the  lake,  and  river  hollow,  and  finally  over  the 
great  reach  of  woods  and  field  nearest  to  me. 
In  summer  nearly  the  whole  of  this  wide  land- 
scape is  green  or  grayish  green.  In  winter  it 
is  white,  grayish  brown,  and  dark  green.  Early 
autumn  dots  the  woods  with  vivid  points  of 
scarlet  and  gold  which  stand  out  sharply  from 
the  mass  of  green;  but  as  the  sunlight  crept 
downward  over  this  late  October  foliage  the 
prevailing  color,  which  glowed  forth  full  of 
strength,  warmth,  and  meahing,  was  red,  — the 
red  of  dregs  of  wine,  of  iron  rust,  of  sleek 
kine,  of  blood.  Intermingled  with  it  were  bits 
of  golden  or  of  sulphur  yellow,  marking  birches 
and  poplars,  and  in  the  pastures  a  few  maples 
late  in  turning  blazed  with  fiery  scarlet  as 
their  fellows  had  weeks  earlier. 

The  warmest  of  the  color  came  from  the 
oaks,  but  the  beeches  supported  them  with 
generous  pigments,  and  so  did  the  masses  of 
blackberry  vines,  choke-cherry  and  huckleberry 
bushes,  and  other  small  shrubs  which  had 
turned  crimson,  red,  or  madder-brown  under 
the  October  sun.  Sweet-fern  bushes,  brakes, 
ferns,  pine  needles,  many  of  the  grasses,  and 
most  of  the  fallen  leaves  constituting  the  greater 
part  of  the  earth's  carpet,  answered  the  sun's 


180    AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

greeting  by  showing  broad  expanses  of  brown, 
ranging  from  burnt  umber  to  dark  straw  color. 

Near  the  lake  were  many  pines,  and  as  the 
light  reached  them  they  seemed  to  grow  higher, 
broader,  nearer,  and  to  shed  into  the  surround- 
ing air  something  of  their  steadfastness  and 
strength.  They  change  not,  falter  not,  fail 
not,  come  what  may  to  their  deciduous  neigh- 
bors. In  this  northern  land  they  are  a  symbol 
of  constancy  and  faith.  No  one  can  look  at  a 
pine-tree  in  winter  without  knowing  that  spring 
will  come  again  in  due  time.  The  lake  itself 
soon  shared  in  the  flood  of  color  brought  out  by 
the  sun.  Most  of  its  surface  was  ruffled  by 
the  breeze,  but  at  points  where  the  high  pines 
sheltered  the  water  and  left  it  rippleless,  the 
mountain-sides  mirrored  themselves,  and  the 
reflection  was  red  like  wine. 

As  the  sun  rose  higher  above  the  hill  behind 
me,  and  cast  its  rays  against  the  west,  more 
and  more  from  above,  and  less  from  a  level, 
the  colors  in  the  landscape  became  less  vivid, 
and  leafless  trees,  birch  trunks,  and  softer  tints 
in  general,  blended  with  the  maroons  and 
browns,  toning  them  down  and  flattening  them, 
until  the  prevailing  coloring  on  the  mountain 
slopes  became  like  the  bloom  on  the  cheek  of  a 
plum ;  and  even  the  brighter,  stronger  tints  in 
the  nearer  view  grew  softer  and  dimmer. 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  181 

After  breakfast  I  climbed  the  ridge  behind 
the  Chocorua  House  and  sought  a  small  beech 
grove  on  its  crest.  In  the  pasture  one  of  the 
hawkweeds,  two  goldenrods,  autumn  butter- 
cups, yarrow,  the  red  and  the  white  clover 
were  still  in  bloom,  sparingly,  of  course,  and 
only  in  warm  corners,  but  still  clinging  bravely 
to  sunlight  and  life.  Crickets  and  small  green 
locusts  were  active  and  noisy.  They  frequented 
hollows  in  the  pasture  surface,  where  beech 
leaves  had  blown  and  lodged  among  the  dry  and 
matted  fern  fronds.  Lying  in  one  of  these 
hollows,  which  made  a  warm  dry  cradle,  I 
watched  the  locusts  hopping  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
crawling  along  the  warm  faces  of  lichen-crusted 
boulders,  and  now  and  then  working  their 
bent  legs  up  and  down,  while  their  fine,  stri- 
dent music  fretted  upon  my  ear.  Some  were 
green,  some  brown,  both  large  and  small,  some 
almost  buff,  tiny,  and  very  agile.  They  were 
not  the  only  insects  enjoying  the  sunlight,  for 
spiders,  house-flies,  now  and  then  a  bee,  small, 
gauzy-winged  flies,  and  many  a  queer  and,  to 
me,  nameless  thing,  with  nervous  antennae, 
passed  that  way  by  wing  or  foot.  At  a  spring 
in  the  woods  where  I  drank  of  icy  water,  count- 
less hosts  of  springtails  or  bristletails  skipped, 
in  sprightly  humor,  over  the  leaves  and  the 
surface    of  the    pool.     About  noon  I  saw  a 


182    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

dragonfly  dart  past,  and  later  a  solitary  ant 
crawl  slowly  across  a  patch  of  sand.  No  but- 
terflies came  to  me,  yet  they  were  still  abundant 
in  Cambridge. 

There  was  no  chill  in  the  air  which  surged 
over  the  hilltop.  It  was  soft  and  caressing, 
yet  so  cool  that  thick  clothing  or  constant  exer- 
cise was  needed  to  keep  warm.  Its  perfect 
dryness  made  it  seem  less  cool  than  it  really 
was.  The  sky  was  wonderfully  blue,  and  it  lent 
its  marvelous  color  to  the  lake.  I  have  a  friend 
who  says  that  March  water  is  bluer  than  any 
other.  It  certainly  carries  its  blueness 
straighter  into  the  heart  than  any  other,  but  as 
I  looked  at  Chocorua  Lake  from  the  hilltop  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  could  not  be  any  bluer 
than  it  was,  framed  in  glossy  pines  on  the  one 
hand,  and  in  golden  brown  and  wine  color  on 
the  other.  The  wind  was  rough  with  the  lake 
this  morning.  Striking  it  suddenly  at  the  far 
north  end,  near  where  my  well-loved  home  stands 
silent  and  deserted  in  the  old  orchard,  it  dark- 
ened the  clear  blue  into  angry  flaw-lines  and 
hurried  them  down  the  long  mile  towards  the 
bridge,  against  which  it  hurled  them  in  white- 
capped  waves.  I  laughed  as  I  watched  one  of 
the  white -edged  squalls  pass  down  the  length  of 
the  lake,  for  it  reminded  me  of  a  day  in  mid- 
winter when  I  attempted  to  cross  the  lake  near 


TEE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES,  183 

its  middle,  carrying  my  pet  owl ' '  Puffy  "  perched 
upon  my  gun-barrel.  A  squall  came  over  the 
white  ice,  bearing  stinging  snow -dust  in  its  van ; 
it  caught  Puffy  from  his  perch  and  set  him  down 
upon  the  ice  with  feet  helplessly  spread,  and 
then  as  he  opened  his  wings  and  tail  and  strug- 
gled in  the  breeze,  it  spim  him  southward,  slid- 
ing and  rolling,  poor  wisp  of  feathers  that  he 
was,  until  he  was  landed,  more  dead  than  alive, 
in  the  woods  on  the  southern  shore. 

The  pines  below  my  breezy  hilltop  tempted 
me  by  their  music  into  their  aisles.  Under 
them  was  spread  the  new  carpet  of  their  needles, 
dry,  warm,  and  tempting  as  a  couch  of  eider- 
down. The  wiud  sang  in  their  tops,  oh  so 
sweetly,  and  it  took  me  back  to  the  moment  in 
my  earliest  childhood  when  I  was  first  conscious 
of  that  soft,  soothing  music.  I  do  not  know 
when  it  was,  nor  where  it  was,  nor  how  young 
I  may  have  been,  but  I  can  recall  as  from  an 
almost  infinite  distance  the  memory  of  a  sudden 
feeling  of  happiness  at  hearing  the  voice  of  the 
pines,  and  knowing  that  it  was  something  kind 
and  soothing.  If  we  are  in  tune  with  Nature, 
all  her  music  can  find  a  way  into  the  heart  and 
satisfy  something  there  which  yearns  for  it,  and 
never  can  be  wholly  happy  without  it.  The 
man  who  trembles  at  thunder  is  more  to  be 
pitied  than  the  poor  Esquimau  who  was  fright* 


184    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

ened  the  other  day  by  the  crash  of  orchestral 
music  at  a  Boston  theatre. 

While  I  listened  to  the  pines  a  chickadee  sang 
his  phoebe-note.  It  was  but  once,  but  it  told 
of  his  happiness  as  he  bustled  about  in  the  dark 
pine  wood  from  which  warbler  and  vireo  had 
departed,  and  upon  which  before  many  days  the 
first  snows  of  winter  are  to  fall.  Brave  little 
titmice!  they  are  among  the  sturdiest  of  New 
England's  sons. 

In  the  heart  of  the  pines  stands  a  house.  I 
well  remember  the  gray  autumn  morning  when 
three  of  us,  on  a  Thanksgiving  holiday,  staked 
out  its  foundation  lines  in  the  thin  snow  and 
drifted  leaves.  We  tramped  back  and  forth 
among  the  trees,  now  higher,  now  lower,  then  a 
little  to  the  left,  then  more  to  the  right.  The 
peak  of  Chocorua  must  clear  those  monster 
pines ;  that  bunch  of  low  pines  must  be  left  low 
enough  to  give  a  free  view  of  the  large  lake,  and 
finally  the  young  trees  rising  on  the  left  must 
not  on  any  account  cover  the  charming  glimpse 
of  the  third  lake  with  its  grove.  At  last  we 
settled  the  spot,  and  drove  our  first  stakes,  fin- 
gered the  long  brass  tape  and  drove  more  stakes. 
Our  hands,  ears,  and  noses  were  cold,  but  it 
was  rare  sport  settling  just  where  that  new  home 
shoidd  be  planted  among  the  singing  pines. 

To  this  house,  deserted  like  my  own  sunny 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  185 

cottage,  I  took  my  way.  Ascending  its  steps,  I 
stood  within  its  lofty,  granite-walled  piazza,  as 
romantic  a  spot,  with  its  three  arched  openings 
facing  westward,  as  a  screened  loggia  overlook- 
ing fair  Maggiore's  azure  waves.  High  above 
and  out  of  sight  of  the  road,  embowered  in  the 
forest,  and  with  the  very  essence  of  the  exquisite 
Chocorua  landscape  framed  in  its  arches,  this 
house  might  weU  attract  me  and  draw  me,  even 
from  the  singing  pines,  to  linger  the  rest  of  the 
forenoon  above  its  terraces.  Bees  and  locusts 
made  music  in  the  sunlight,  flaming  geraniimas 
bloomed  at  the  foot  of  the  castle  wall,  the  per- 
fume of  sweet  peas  still  in  full  flower  hung 
lightly  in  the  air,  and  upon  one  of  the  stone  col- 
umns of  the  arches,  morning-glories,  unharmed 
by  the  several  frosts  which  had  wrought  havoc 
with  other  tender  plants,  turned  their  filmy  blos- 
soms towards  the  sun.  Society  with  its  present 
habits  is  to  blame  for  the  desertion  of  such  a 
home  as  this  on  such  a  day  as  this,  when  Nature 
is  at  her  loveliest.  Why  is  it  that  all  New 
England  which  has  brains,  money,  or  philan- 
thropy thinks  the  city  the  one  proper  sphere  for 
life  in  all  save  a  few  weeks  given  grudgingly  to 
rest?  The  cities  are  too  large,  too  rich  in  hu- 
man forces.  They  are  debasing  our  New  Eng- 
land stock,  draining  away  the  best  of  our  vital- 
ity in  their  too  nervous  life.     If  a  third  of  theix 


186  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMF  WATER. 

population  could  be  sown  into  the  fallow  places 
in  the  hill  country,  their  own  competition  would 
become  a  less  fatal  flame,  and  the  country  dis- 
tricts, instead  of  steadily  degenerating  in  phys- 
ical, moral,  and  intellectual  tone,  would  again 
become  prolific  in  healthy  men  and  women. 

So  far  as  I  know,  the  word  "moor  "  is  not  ap- 
plied to  any  part  of  our  New  England  scenery; 
yet  there  are  dry,  comparatively  treeless  uplands, 
wind-swept  and  dotted  with  bogs  which  closely 
resemble  English  moorland.  I  climbed  to  the 
level  of  one  early  in  the  afternoon  and  strolled 
along  its  rough  surface.  At  the  first  bit  of  bog 
that  I  struck  a  wood-frog  jimiped  across  the 
path.  He  was  listless,  and  made  but  short 
leaps.  When  I  followed  him  he  plunged  be- 
neath a  log  which  lay  in  the  cold  mud.  Be- 
yond, on  dry  ground,  a  grouse  rose  noisily  from 
low  cover  and  flew  far  before  going  out  of 
sight.  As  I  crossed  some  stony  ground  a  mouse 
ran  from  me  and  hid  between  two  boulders. 
Blocking  both  entrances  to  his  hiding-place 
with  my  feet,  I  tilted  one  rock  away  from  the 
other.  The  mouse  darted  first  towards  one  of 
my  feet  and  then  towards  the  other.  He  dared 
not  cross  either,  for  I  kept  them  moving.  So 
he  remained  trembling  in  the  middle.  He  was 
Hefiperomys^  the  deer  mouse,  big-eyed  and 
white-footed.     I  left  him  imharmed. 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  187 

Following  the  edge  of  my  moor,  I  came  to  a 
little  glen  which  cut  deeply  into  its  side.  A 
few  acres  of  bog  fed  a  little  brook  that  passed 
through  the  glen  on  its  way  to  the  river.  The 
ravine  was  heavily  wooded,  mainly  with  tall  and 
imusually  slender  beeches.  Descending  into 
this  grove  was  like  entering  the  halo  which  the 
sunlight  of  Paris,  shining  through  golden-tinted 
glass,  casts  around  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  in  the 
chapel  of  the  Hotel  des  Invalides.  The  rush- 
ing of  the  wind  in  the  dry  leaves  filled  the  glen 
with  sweet,  soothing  sounds ;  the  sun  warmed  it 
and  sufiPused  it  with  radiance;  and  a  deep  bed 
of  beech  leaves  gathered  in  a  hollow  offered  a 
couch  too  tempting  to  be  passed  by.  Every 
sense  was  gratified  in  this  abode  of  music  and 
color,  for  a  faint  perfume  came  from  the  leaves, 
telling  of  ripening  and  the  fulfillment  of  nature's 
purposes.  At  ease  in  the  drifted  leaves,  I 
watched  the  tree-tops  bending  before  the  gusts. 
One  moment  the  golden  roof  of  foliage  con- 
cealed the  sky;  the  next,  as  every  lofty  head 
inclined,  wide  areas  of  distant  ether  appeared, 
only  to  vanish  again  under  the  rhythmic  move- 
ment of  the  trees.  The  gusts  kept  the  air  well 
filled  with  falling,  fluttering  fragments  of  the 
golden  roof.  Hundreds  of  leaves  were  often  in 
the  air  at  once,  parting  company  from  hundreds 
of  thousands  still  upon  the  branohes,  but  going 


188  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

to  join  legions  already  on  the  ground,  waiting 
there  the  soft  tyranny  of  the  snow. 

In  the  midst  of  the  beeches  stood  a  lofty 
hemlock.  The  owner  of  this  wood  had  chosen 
it  for  his  castle.  About  thirty  feet  from  the 
ground  at  a  point  where  several  limbs  diverged 
from  the  main  trunk  a  nest  was  securely  fixed. 
Perhaps  an  inexperienced  eye  would  have  taken 
it  for  a  bird's  nest.  It  may  have  been  a  bird's 
nest  originally.  Now  the  mass  of  dead  beech 
leaves  heaped  upon  it  and  woven  into  its  fabric, 
making  it  a  conspicuous  object  from  every  point 
of  view,  proclaimed  it  to  be  the  home  of  a  gray 
squirrel.  Winds  may  blow,  and  rain,  hail,  and 
snow  fall,  but  that  nest  will  rest  secure  against 
the  hemlock's  trimk,  under  the  thatched  roof  of 
hemlock  branches.  Early  in  September  I  found 
a  new  nest  of  this  kind  in  a  large  beech-tree, 
and  upon  opening  it  made  a  discovery.  The 
compressed  green  beech  leaves  gave  out  a  strong, 
aromatic  odor  which  I  at  once  recognized  as 
one  of  which  I  had  often  obtained  whiffs  in 
walking  through  the  beech  woods,  but  which  I 
never  had  been  able  to  assign  to  any  flower  or 
shrub. 

In  the  lulls  between  the  wind's  gusts  I  could 
hear  the  tinkling  of  a  brook  at  the  bottom  of 
the  glen.  Peering  into  the  gloom  below,  where 
hemlock  bushes  overshadowed  the  stream's  bed, 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  189 

I  sought  for  a  gleam  of  water.  Not  a  drop  was 
to  be  seen.  I  descended,  following  the  sound 
of  the  falling  drops,  and  came  to  a  perpendicular 
ledge  at  the  upper  end  of  the  ravine.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  direction  of  the  music;  it 
came  from  the  face  of  the  rocks  and  the  pile  of 
debris  at  its  bottom.  Still  not  a  drop  of  water 
could  be  seen.  The  falling  beech  leaves  had 
completely  covered  brook  and  fall,  pool  and 
rock,  but  behind  their  veil  the  water  went  on 
with  its  singing.  It  will  do  the  same,  brave 
little  rill !  when  snow  covers  the  leaves  and  ice 
forms  above  and  below  the  snow.  The  sweet 
jingling  notes  will  be  muffled,  but  they  will  be 
sung  all  the  same. 

Of  course  I  drank  from  the  brook,  sweeping 
away  the  encumbering  leaves  from  the  top  of 
the  fall  to  get  the  water  just  where  it  rushed 
most  swiftly.  Not  to  drink  from  a  New  Hamp- 
shire brook  is  almost  as  much  of  a  slight  as  not 
to  bow  to  a  friend,  or  not  to  kiss  a  little  child 
when  she  lifts  her  face  for  the  good-night  caress 
which  she  thinks  all  the  world  is  ready  and 
worthy  to  give  to  little  children.  Refreshed,  I 
clambered  up  the  other  side  of  the  glen  and 
regained  the  open  moorland,  and  the  glorious, 
rushing  wind.  Across  the  valley  the  old  river 
terraces  stood  out  as  sharply  as  steps  cut  in  the 
face  of  the  hill.     To  have  cut  those  fair  out- 


190  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

lines  there  must  have  been  more  water  flowing 
out  of  Chocorua  lakes  in  the  olden  time  than 
flows  from  them  now.  Perhaps  in  those  days 
Ossipee  Lake  washed  these  very  terraces. 

Coming  to  another  deep  cleft  in  the  side  of 
the  moor,  I  hesitated  whether  to  run  down  one 
grassy  slope,  a  hundred  feet  and  more,  and  then 
up  the  other  slope,  or  to  go  round.  Precedent 
decided  me  to  go  rotmd.  About  six  feet  below 
the  edge  of  the  bank  a  narrow  well-trodden  path 
skirted  the  ravine,  going  to  its  head,  crossing 
at  the  same  level  and  following  along  just  below 
the  edge  of  the  opposite  bank.  Sometimes  a 
well-turfed  bank  in  a  pasture  where  food  is  not 
abundant  will  be  scored  by  many  paths  of  this 
kind,  one  below  another.  They  are  made  by 
the  cattle,  for  a  cow  never  will  go  down  a  steep 
incline  if,  without  too  great  exertion,  she  can 
keep  her  four  feet  approximately  on  a  level. 

When  I  gained  the  southern  end  of  the 
moor-like  ridge,  two  villages  lay  before  me,  one 
on  the  left,  the  other  on  the  right.  One  was 
the  home  of  the  dead,  the  other  the  toiling- 
ground  of  the  living.  They  can  see  each  other, 
and  year  by  year  the  village  on  the  hill  grows 
larger,  and  that  in  the  valley  grows  smaller. 
When  the  venerable  village  postmaster  was 
suddenly  turned  out  of  ofiice  a  few  years  ago 
against  the  public  wishes,  but  in  obedience  to 


THE  VINTAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES.  191 

the  infamous  "spoils  "  policy,  he  was  commiser- 
ated with  for  his  hard  fortune.  "Yes,"  he  said,  . 
"it  is  hard,  but  I  knew  it  was  coming,  and 
bless  your  soul,  the  time  is  near  when  I  shall 
be  turned  out  of  this  house  too,  and  told  to  let 
some  other  fellow  rotate  in  and  get  warm.  But, 
my  friend,  there  is  a  house  of  mine  up  yonder 
on  the  hill  where  politics  and  money  don't 
count,  and  when  this  world  seems  unkind  I 
look  up  there  and  say  to  myself,  'Pretty  soon, 
pretty  soon. ' " 

While  waiting  for  the  mail  wagon  to  come 
down  the  Ossipee  road,  over  the  red  bridge  and 
up  the  hiU  to  the  store,  I  plucked  individual 
leaves  from  trees  and  bushes,  and  marveled  over 
their  many  ways  of  changing  from  pliant  green 
to  crackling  brown.  One  of  the  most  brilliant 
shrubs  near  the  road  was  a  blueberry.  Its 
leaves  were  crimson,  tending  towards  scarlet, 
and  their  surface  was  as  brilliant  as  satin.  The 
blackberry,  which  in  some  lights  seemed  as 
bright  as  the  blueberry,  was  more  of  a  wine 
color,  and  it  had  a  duller  surface.  Some  of 
the  viburnum  leaves  were  rich  red  on  their  up- 
per faces,  but  pale  below,  their  mid -vein  being 
pink,  and  a  greenish  tone  pervading  their  under 
surface.  Others,  shaped  like  maple  leaves, 
were  of  a  singular  color,  —  a  kind  of  pinkish 
purple.     An  oak  leaf,  plucked  from  a  young 


192    AT  THE  NORTE  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER, 

bush  not  many  years  out  of  the  acorn,  was  the 
color  of  newly-shed  blood  in  its  centre,  but 
many  small  detached  areas  upon  it  remained 
green.  From  a  sucker  shoot  of  a  poplar  I  gath- 
ered several  strangely  effective  leaves.  One 
was  of  sulphur  yeUow  coarsely  spotted  with 
black  dots;  another  was  blackish  brown  with 
crimson  veinings  above,  and  clear  yellowish 
white  veinings  below,  —  a  most  unique  combi- 
nation. From  an  adjoining  poplar  I  picked  one 
uniformly  black  over  three  quarters  of  its  area, 
but  blotched  with  vivid  green  near  its  apex. 
Its  veins  were  yellowish  white  both  above  and 
below.  The  clusters  of  lambkill  leaves  were 
very  pretty.  While  the  upper  surfaces  of  the 
leaves  were  faded  vermilion  or  pinkish  salmon 
color,  the  under  sides  were  buff,  or  very  pale 
sage  green.  The  willow  leaves  were  queer, 
damaged  looking  things,  a  good  deal  nibbled  by 
insects  and  much  splashed  with  dark  brown 
upon  a  yellowish  olive  groundwork.  A  bunch 
of  violet  leaves  were  clear  golden  yellow,  while 
some  of  the  more  delicate  ferns  were  nearly 
white.  Truly  the  botanists  have  many  pleasant 
problems  before  them  if  they  are  ever  to  ascer- 
tain why  some  green  leaves  turn  black,  and 
others  brown,  orange,  yellow,  red,  purple,  or 
white. 

An  inspection  of  the  mail  led  me  to  walk 


THE  VINTAGE   OF  THE  LEAVES.  193 

rapidly  back  to  the  Chocorua  House  and  pack 
my  bag  for  a  return  journey  to  the  city.  As  I 
drove  southward  the  mountains,  seen  across  the 
pine  barrens,  were  veiled  in  haze.  The  wind 
seemed  chiding  me  for  going  away  so  abruptly 
from  this  paradise  of  color.  Again  and  again  I 
looked  back  at  my  favorite  peaks  and  forests, 
printing  more  and  more  deeply  in  my  mind  the 
recollection  of  their  noble  outlines  and  remark- 
able coloring.  Finally  from  the  platform  of 
the  rear  car  I  saw  them  over  the  Bearcamp 
meadows,  and  above  and  beyond  them,  with  its 
cloud-cap  just  drifting  away  to  the  eastward, 
Mount  Washington,  benignantly  presiding  over 
the  northern  sky.  Then  the  train  rumbled 
across  the  Bearcamp  trestle  and  the  shadow  of 
the  Ossipee  hills  fell  upon  us  and  deepened  into 
night. 


CHOCORUA  IN   NOVEMBER. 

In  Cambridge,  Saturday,  the  5th  of  Novem- 
ber, began  its  daylight  in  a  driving  snowstorm. 
The  long,  dry,  sunny  month  of  October  was,  as 
the  farmers  had  prophesied,  to  be  followed  by 
a  real  old-fashioned,  early  and  hard  New  Eng- 
land winter.  By  ten  o'clock  the  warm  sun  and 
brisk  northwest  wind  had  dissipated  the  snow, 
and  bad -weather  prophets  were  silent.  Not  for 
long,  however,  for  at  noon  the  ground  was  again 
white,  and  as  I  crossed  West  Boston  Bridge  on 
my  way  to  the  train,  the  Back  Bay  was  swept 
by  a  fierce  wind  which  carried  the  spray  from 
its  gray -green  waves  half  over  the  bridge  piers, 
and  into  the  level  gravel  walks  on  Charlesbank. 
My  friends  looked  at  me  pityingly  when  I  said 
that  I  was  bound  for  the  White  Mountains,  and 
asked  whether  I  was  not  going  to  take  my  snow- 
shoes. 

Oddly  enough,  on  reaching  Portsmouth,  hav- 
ing traveled  to  that  point  through  dizzy  myriads 
of  flakes  of  the  stickiest  kind  of  snow,  I  found 
the  sun  brightly  shining,  and  no  snow  visible  on 
the  Kittery  pastures.    Not  until  we  were  within 


CBOCORUA  IN  NOVEMBER.  195 

sight  of  the  hills  which  bound  the  Bearcamp 
valley  on  the  south  did  snow  again  greet  my 
eyes,  and  then  it  was  confined  to  the  highlands. 
My  last  trip  had  been  such  a  revel  in  color 
that  I  found  myself  noticing  tints  more  than 
other  beauties  in  the  ever-varying  landscape 
through  which  the  train  flew  shuttle -wise.  A 
great  change  had  come  over  the  face  of  nature 
in  the  fortnight  which  had  fled  since  my  last 
visit.  November  was  written  in  subdued  tones 
where  October  had  burned  before.  The  birch 
groves  were  no  longer  filled  with  pale  lambent 
flames.  Their  yeUow  leaves  had  all  fallen,  and 
their  massed  twigs  needed  the  full  power  of  the 
sun  to  show  that  behind  their  dull  gray  shading 
lurked  the  subdued  color  of  the  plum.  Even 
darker,  and  without  warm  undertones,  were 
the  alder  thickets,  more  black  than  gray.  The 
larches  were  still  pure  gold,  wonderfid  in  their 
happy  contrast  to  the  pines  and  spruces.  The 
apple-trees  retained  their  full  suit  of  leaves, 
sometimes  touched  with  a  golden  light,  often 
perfectly  green.  Under  them  the  grass  was 
generally  as  verdant  as  in  spring.  Barberries 
hung  in  dense  masses  in  their  bushes;  the 
American  holly  berries  blazed  with  scarlet,  and 
here  and  there  in  the  dull  forest  a  gleam  of 
crimson  told  of  a  blueberry  or  amelanchier  bush. 
As  the  train  whirled  across  wood-paths,  they 


196  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

showed  as  yellowish  stripes  in  the  forest.  The 
drifted  beech  leaves  gave  them  tone.  In  the 
gloom  of  the  matted  alders,  fuzzy  balls  of  soiled 
wool  seemed  to  have  lodged.  They  were  the 
flowers  of  the  white  clematis,  gone  to  seed. 
Somewhat  similar  but  thinner  masses  clung  to 
the  stalks  of  the  fireweed. 

As  the  wind  swept  across  a  cornfield  from 
which  all  but  the  stalks  with  one  or  two  flaxen 
leaves  had  been  stripped,  the  long  leaves 
streamed  and  flapped  before  the  breeze  like 
yacht  pennants.  In  the  orchards  piles  of  red 
and  of  yellow  apples  shone  in  the  sunlight,  and 
when  one  still  depended  from  the  tree  it  was  as 
bright  as  a  gilt  ball  on  a  Christmas-tree. 

The  oaks  still  held  their  leaves  stubbornly, 
but  the  blood  had  gone  from  them  and  their 
color  was  of  tanned  leather,  deepening  in  places 
to  a  dull  maroon.  The  dry  stubble  fields, 
closely  cropped  mowings,  and  rank  meadows 
were  all  aglow  with  evenly  spread  color.  The 
stubble  fields  were  purplish,  the  fields  pale 
yellow,  and  the  meadows  deep  straw  color. 
Masses  of  goldenrod  stalks  were  well  named, 
for  they  were  golden  brown.  Their  leaves  were 
dull  brown.  If  as  the  train  dashed  between 
gravel  banks  I  caught  a  flash  of  crimson  on  the 
sand,  I  knew  that  blueberry  bushes  had  caught 
root  there. 


CHOCORVA  IN  NOVEMBER.  197 

The  daylight  faded  early,  but  as  the  sun  sank 
it  poured  more  and  more  color  into  the  hills. 
Reflected  rays  danced  from  the  window-panes 
of  farmhouses  on  the  high  slopes  to  the  east  of 
the  track.  Such  glimpses  of  isolated  buildings 
have  a  flavor  of  home  and  snugness  which  no 
city  suggests.  The  absence  of  leaves  and  the 
presence  of  many  shadows  cast  by  the  low  No- 
vember sun  revealed  more  clearly  than  usual 
the  pleasing  contours  of  glacial  hills  and  their 
eroded  sides.  Most  of  the  gravelly  products  of 
the  glacier  are  graceful  in  outline,  composed  of 
easy  curves  or  gentle  undulations.  Not  only 
are  the  sky  lines  grateful  to  the  eye,  but  those 
which  curve  forward  and  back  along  the  line  of 
vision  have  in  them  the  element  of  beauty. 
The  cutting  of  banks  by  streams  leaves  many 
a  gentle  terrace  which  advances,  retreats,  now 
makes  a  bold  front,  the  next  moment  shrinks 
away  in  a  bow-shaped  bay.  Ice  and  water  seem 
to  abhor  straight  lines,  but  to  love  rhythmic  mo- 
tion. Upon  a  small  glacial  mound  shaped  like 
a  beehive  stood  a  single  pine,  brave-limbed  and 
lichen-grown.  I  have  noticed  it  for  years,  and 
something  in  its  pose  always  suggests  "The 
Monarch  of  the  Glen,"  with  head  erect  and 
every  sense  alert.  It  was  much  fuller  of  anima- 
tion than  the  flock  of  dingy  sheep  which  at  first 
sight  I  thought  to  be  moss-covered  boulders.    ' 


198  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

The  sun  set  not  long  after  four  o'clock,  and 
the  sky  borrowed  from  it  fleeting  rosy  light. 
Then  the  yellow-white  steam  from  the  engine 
billowed  past  my  window,  and  through  it  shone 
the  blue-white  snow,  making  the  steam  seem 
soiled.  As  I  looked  forward  at  fields  which  we 
were  approaching,  no  snow  was  to  be  seen,  yet 
as  we  passed  them  and  I  looked  back  upon  the 
northern  side  of  their  inequalities  they  were 
wholly  white. 

When  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  car  my 
eyes  rested,  fascinated,  upon  the  gilded  axe 
which  always  hangs  above  the  car  door.  Sig- 
nificant emblem  of  our  civilization,  which  cyni- 
cally takes  unwarrantable  risks  with  life,  limb, 
and  property,  in  order  that  man  may  increase 
his  misery  by  perpetually  hurrying ! 

The  gleam  of  Six  Mile  Pond  told  me  that  the 
train  was  in  Madison.  A  moment  later  I  was 
standing  in  the  crisp  night  air  knocking  for 
supper  at  the  tavern  door. 

When  we  say  "It  is  two  miles  from  Madison 
to  Tam worth  Iron  Works,"  we  do  not  tell  the 
whole  truth.  It  would  be  better  to  add,  "over 
the  top  of  Deer  Hill."  For  years  Madison  has 
gone  to  Tamworth  over  Deer  Hill,  or  else  it 
has  stayed  at  home  and  wished  that  Deer  Hill 
was  elsewhere.  How  long  grim  devotion  to  the 
one  occupied  farm  on  Deer  Hill  will  force  the 


CHOCORUA  IN  NOVEMBER.  199 

inhabitants  of  two  townships  to  ignore  the  fact 
that  a  level  road  could  readily  unite  them  re- 
mains to  be  seen.  Deer  Hill  given  back  to 
Charles's  Wain  as  the  only  team  enduring 
enough  to  travel  steadily  over  it  would  be  Deer 
Hill  justly  dealt  with  at  last. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  stood  on  the  crest  of  this 
stumbling-block  to  progress  and  gazed  at  its 
view  of  sky  and  forest.  The  moon  struggled 
with  eastern  cloud-banks.  In  the  north,  white 
clouds  drifted  over  whiter  mountain  ridges. 
Once  the  peak  of  Chocorua  peeped  through  its 
veil  and  caught  upon  its  marble  sides  the  radi- 
ance of  the  coy  moon.  After  following  the 
road  to  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the 
Iron  Works,  I  left  it  and  struck  northwestward 
across  the  moor  towards  the  Chocorua  House. 
Suddenly  I  saw  an  object  upon  the  level  stub- 
ble which  suggested  danger.  For  many  years  I 
have  lived  in  dread  of  meeting  and  being  pur- 
sued by  a  skunk  at  night.  Had  the  moment  ar- 
rived ?  Edging  away  from  the  object,  I  watched 
it  keenly.  Did  it  move?  No.  Yes!  It  was 
turning  its  head  towards  me  and  lifting  that 
dreaded  tail  straight  above  its  back.  Still  at 
least  fifteen  feet  from  the  beast,  I  kept  steadily 
on  my  way  in  a  semicircle  round  it.  The  skunk 
revolved,  keeping  his  head  towards  me,  and  then 
I  saw  his  tail  snapped  forward  irritably.     I  had 


200  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

reached  a  stone  wall,  and,  springing  upon  it,  I 
hooted  after  the  manner  of  owls,  barked  after 
the  manner  of  dogs,  and  then  fled  after  the 
manner  of  men.  I  neither  saw  nor  smelt  any- 
thing more  of  the  skunk. 

My  way  took  me  into  the  golden  beech  wood 
on  the  border  of  the  moor.  The  moon,  now 
free  from  clouds,  shed  a  soft,  dim  light  into  the 
grove.  Scarcely  a  leaf  clung  to  the  trees,  but 
upon  the  ground  they  were  heaped  up  ankle 
deep.  As  there  had  been  crackling  ice  in  all 
the  pools  in  the  road,  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
the  waters  of  the  leaf -hidden  brook  were  very 
cold. 

An  hour  after  leaving  Madison  I  stood  before 
an  open  birch-wood  fire  in  Chocorua  Cottage. 
Not  only  did  its  warmth  appeal  to  my  cheeks 
and  fingers,  but  something  in  the  whirl  of  its 
flames  and  the  snap  of  its  sparks  made  my  heart 
beat  more  in  tune  with  all  the  world. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  at  six  o'clock  and 
at  once  opened  my  blinds  and  raised  my  shades 
so  that  I  could  see  the  mountains  both  to  the 
north  and  to  the  west.  Not  a  cloud  or  a  sus- 
picion of  haze  marred  the  perfect  blueness  of  the 
sky  or  the  distinctness  of  the  outlines  of  hills, 
trees,  and  boulders.  The  moon  was  still  nearly 
three  hours  from  her  time  of  setting,  and  her 
light,  almost  as  much  as  that  of  the  unrisen  sim. 


CHOC  OB  U A  IN  NOVEMBER.  201 

contributed  to  the  serene  glow  which  filled  the 
sky  and  fell  softly  upon  the  sleeping  earth. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  any  whiter  than 
snow,  and  as  the  peak  and  bare  upper  ledges  of 
Chocorua  were  covered  by  an  almost  unbroken 
envelope  of  snow,  no  alpine  horn  ever  gleamed 
with  a  fairer  light  than  that  which  shone  from 
Chocorua' s  summit.  Paugus,  Passaconaway, 
and  Whitef  ace  are  usually  dark  by  contrast  to 
Chocorua,  even  in  midwinter.  To  my  surprise 
they  were  almost  as  white  as  the  marble  lion 
itself.  Their  spruces  were  coated  with  snow, 
which  had  frozen  in  masses  to  the  needles,  effec- 
tually covering  the  dark  green  by  a  gleaming 
surface  of  white. 

As  the  sun  neared  the  horizon,  a  faint  rosy 
glow  came  into  the  western  sky.  Then  it 
touched  the  snowy  peaks,  leaving  them  pale 
salmon  color.  Finally  it  crept  down  the  moun- 
tain slopes,  changing  the  silvery  gray  of  the 
leafless  forest  masses  into  ashes-of-rose  color, 
delightful  to  the  eye. 

It  was  a  winter  landscape,  yet  as  the  sun 
climbed  higher  into  the  cloudless  sky,  the  soft 
still  air  was  caressing  in  its  warm  touch  upon 
the  cheek.  I  looked  curiously  at  the  thermo- 
meter, not  knowing  whether  it  would  say  25® 
or  60°.  It  stood  at  30°,  a  temperature  which, 
with  a  Boston  east  wind  and  a  rainstorm,  is 


202  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

quite  capable  of  freezing  the  love  of  life  out  of 
one's  vitals.  Feeling  as  buoyant  as  a  cork,  I 
dashed  off  after  breakfast  in  search  of  something 
high  to  climb.  An  overcoat  was  unbearable, 
and  my  jersey  was  dispensed  with  by  ten  o'clock, 
leaving  me  comfortable  in  ordinary  indoor  cos- 
tume. The  air  seemed  full  of  life-giving  qual- 
ity, joy,  health,  hope.  So  thought  the  titmice, 
robins,  tree  sparrows,  jxuicos,  and  kinglets,  all 
of  which  were  noisy  and  full  of  motion. 

Speeding  past  the  lakes,  I  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment in  my  own  orchard  to  lament  the  death  of 
an  osprey  which  I  found  at  the  foot  of  an  apple- 
tree,  where  some  hunters  had  left  him.  It  is 
fortunate  that  all  animals  have  not  man's  pro- 
pensity for  killing  merely  for  the  sake  of  killing. 
Here  was  a  bird  of  beautiful  plumage,  wonder- 
ful powers  of  sight  and  flight,  measuring  only 
five  inches  less  than  six  feet  from  wing  tip  to 
wing  tip,  practically  harmless,  and  by  no  means 
common  in  these  mountains,  yet  after  being  shot 
merely  for  love  of  murder,  his  body  was  left 
where  it  fell,  to  feed  skunks  and  foxes.  Small 
wonder  that  creation  seems  out  of  joint  wherever 
man's  influence  extends. 

My  next  stopping-place  was  the  lonely  lake, 
now  more  lonely  than  ever,  for  not  a  bird  flew 
among  its  trees,  and  not  a  fin  stirred  in  its  green 
waters.      Upon  its  mossy  bank,  marvelous  to 


CUOCORUA  IN  NOVEMBER.  203 

relate,  I  found  three  fresh  blossoms  of  the  hous- 
tonia.  Like  the  sweet  peas  at  my  cottage,  the 
witch-hazel  by  the  brook,  and  the  tiny  sprig  of 
goldenrod  picked  in  the  pasture,  these  frail 
flowers  had  endured  frosts  by  the  dozen  and  a 
recent  fall  of  snow  which  must  have  buried  them 
several  inches  deep.  Over  them  a  red  maple 
was  doing  its  best  to  keep  them  company,  for 
its  crimson  buds  seemed  as  plimip  and  full  of 
color  as  they  ought  to  be  next  March.  A 
flower  of  another  kind  bloomed  in  profusion 
upon  the  sand  close  to  the  lake's  rim.  It  was 
like  frosted  silver  in  sheen,  and  the  sunbeams 
loved  to  play  in  its  beautiful  petals.  How  it 
grows  I  know  not,  but  it  comes  up  from  the 
sand  in  a  single  night,  rank  by  rank  and  cluster 
by  cluster,  often  lifting  up  great  masses  of  sand 
upon  its  spearheads.  This  flower  is  the  ice 
flower,  whose  wonderful  armies  of  needle -like 
crystals  sprout  under  the  influence  of  the  frost 
from  every  damp  mass  of  sand  or  gravel,  ready 
to  be  crunched  under  foot  in  the  morning  as 
horse  and  man  pass  over  the  uplifted  roads. 

In  the  first  brook  which  I  passed  beyond  the 
pond  I  saw  two  small  trout,  the  longer  of  the 
two  being  not  over  an  inch  and  a  haK  from 
snout  to  tail.  They  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  little 
sluggish,  or  rather  a  trifle  less  instantaneous 
than   in   warm   months.     Two  or  three  green 


204  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEAKCAMP  WATER. 

locusts  were  also  evidently  depressed  by  the  cool 
weather,  and  they  played  their  tunes  rarely  and 
without  much  spirit.  Listening  to  them  and 
to  the  sounds  which  the  wind  made  in  a  bunch 
of  dry  brakes,  I  fancied  that  I  saw  in  what 
quarter  the  first  grasshopper  took  his  music 
lessons.  The  rubbing  together  of  the  parts  of 
the  withered  fronds  produced  sounds  almost 
exactly  like  the  locust's  strident  playing. 

Taking  the  Hammond  path,  I  ascended  the 
eastern  spur  of  Chocorua.  The  side  of  the 
mountain  was  one  vast  bed  of  loosely  scattered 
leaves.  Next  spring  each  leaf  will  be  pressed 
so  closely  upon  its  neighbor  that  the  veining  of 
one  will  be  imprinted  upon  the  face  of  the  other. 
Now  they  are  still  free  to  drift  with  wind  ed- 
dies, and  to  rustle  noisily  around  the  feet  of  the 
passer-by.  The  smell  of  oak  leaves,  newly 
fallen,  is  very  powerful,  and,  except  as  a  re- 
minder of  autumn  walks,  too  much  like  ink  to 
be  pleasant.  Among  the  fallen  leaves  the 
bright  green  of  checkerberry,  club  mosses,  and 
wintergreen  showed  now  and  then,  while  the 
dark  liver-colored  leaves  of  a  goldenrod  con- 
trasted with  the  brown  of  the  beech  leaves. 

I  must  have  climbed  fully  eight  hundred  feet 
from  the  level  of  the  pastures  before  snow  be- 
gan to  appear  along  the  path,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  line  of  low  spruces  was  gained  that 


CBOCORUA  IN  NOVEMBER.  205 

the  snow  was  continuous  or  at  all  deep.  No 
sooner  had  I  struck  the  snow  area  than  I  began 
to  find  evidence  of  the  passing  along  and  across 
the  path  of  the  creatures  of  the  woods.  In  five 
or  six  places  a  fox  had  followed  the  path  for 
several  rods.  Rabbits  had  crossed  it  over  and 
over  again,  and  mice  even  had  recognized  it  as 
a  thoroughfare  and  taken  laborious  journeys  in 
its  drifts. 

A  few  minutes  past  noon  I  reached  the  top 
of  Ball  Mountain,  or,  as  it  is  generally  called, 
Bald  Mountain.  Here  the  snow  lay  four  to 
eight  inches  deep  upon  everything  except  the 
bare  ledges,  which  were  dry  and  warm.  As  I 
gained  the  crest,  a  hawk  sailed  over  me  and  out 
into  that  sea  of  space  above  the  valley.  What 
joy  it  must  be  to  fly,  and  especially  to  soar  and 
float,  in  high  ether,  with  scarce  a  muscle  mov- 
ing! Suddenly  a  plaintive  note  fell  upon  my 
ear,  and,  turning,  I  saw  a  bird  about  the  size 
of  a  robin  flying  northward.  It  soon  vanished 
in  the  distance,  I  meanwhile  striving  to  recall 
when,  where,  and  from  what  bird  I  had  heard 
that  sad  cry  before.  Hoping  to  see  more  birds, 
and  seeking  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  peak, 
I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  ledges  intermediate 
between  Bald  Mountain  and  the  foot  of  the 
peak,  ixid  there,  upon  a  broad,  dry  face  of 
granite,  on  the  edge  of  the  steep  incline  which 


206  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

reaches  far  down  into  the  eastern  hollow  of 
Choeorua,  I  rested  and  drew  strength  from  the 
perfect  peace  of  my  surroundings. 

The  only  sounds  which  I  could  hear,  and 
they  were  only  occasional,  were  produced  by 
the  fall  of  masses  of  snow  from  spruce  limbs, 
and  the  sighing  of  the  breeze  in  the  tree -tops 
far  below  me  in  the  ravine.  When  the  wind 
ceased,  the  hush  was  wonderful.  In  so  vast  a 
space  it  seemed  as  though  some  voice  of  nature 
must  make  itself  heard;  but  above,  below, 
northward  towards  Canada,  eastward  towards 
the  ocean,  southward,  where  Winnepesaukee's 
waters  were  too  dazzling  to  watch,  and  west- 
ward, among  the  snowy  ravines  of  clustered 
mountains,  all  was  absolute  repose  and  silence. 
Not  a  bird  or  an  insect  was  to  be  seen,  and  the 
stiff  spruces  were  as  motionless  as  the  rock  from 
which  they  sprang.  The  peak  was  the  most 
forceful  element  in  the  landscape.  It  seemed 
the  embodiment  of  cold,  silent  strength.  Nine 
tenths  of  its  surface  were  pure  white  snow,  one 
tenth  black  rock,  whose  steep  faces  or  sharp 
angles  refused  to  hold  the  snow.  Rising  fifteen 
hundred  feet  above  the  ledges  on  which  I  sat, 
yet  being  not  more  than  half  a  mile  from  me, 
its  massive  presence  was  not  only  impressive 
but  oppressive.  I  felt  as  though  it  might  fall 
and  crush  me  to  powder. 


CHOC  OR  U A  IN  NOVEMBER.  207 

Across  the  eastern  valley,  filled  with  its  white- 
stemmed  birches  and  poplars,  rose  a  forbidding 
line  of  snowy  cliffs.  Of  all  the  buttresses  which 
prop  the  peak,  this  lofty  ridge  of  nude  rock  is 
the  most  inaccessible  and  sullen.  Now  and  then 
a  bear  is  seen  traversing  its  danger,  nis  faces  in 
search  of  berries,  but  man  rarely  st^ps  upon  it. 
ever-visible  but  repellent  heights. 

Looking  away  from  the  sun,  all  the  world  was 
white  or  gray;  looking  towards  it,  deep  violet 
tones  predominated,  while  from  between  the 
hills  many  lakes  flashed  towards  me  the  slant- 
ing, dazzling  rays  of  the  low-hanging  sun.  So 
dark  was  the  south  that  I  found  it  hard  to  real- 
ize that  the  hour  was  but  one  o'clock  and  the 
sky  cloudless.  In  six  weeks  the  sun  will  be 
even  lower,  the  violet  shadows  deeper,  and 
midwinter  will  rule  the  whole  of  the  frozen 
land. 

When  I  opened  my  lunch,  a  house-fly  came 
to  share  it  with  me.  Omnipresent  and  much 
enduring  insect,  for  once  he  was  welcome,  and 
I  felt  as  though  a  companion  sat  with  me.  In 
the  rock  upon  which  I  rested  there  was  a  little 
rift,  filled  with  water  upon  which  floated  a  fish- 
shaped  cake  of  ice.  This  was  my  punch-bowl, 
and  never  thirst  found  sweeter,  purer  draught 
for  its  quenching,  than  came  from  that  heaven- 
filled  and  frost-cooled  cup.     I  wanted  to  bless 


208  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

it,  but  found  it  blessing  me,  for  it  was  much  to 
me,  while  I  was  nothing  to  it.  Rift  and  rock 
were  there  before  I  took  breath,  and  they  will 
be  there  centuries  after  I  am  a  vanished  mote 
in  the  sky.  Just  as  I  left  the  ledge,  homeward 
bound,  a  bird  call  rang  out  sharply.  I  listened 
and  a  low  tremulous  song  came  from  the 
spruces.  Sweeping  their  serrated  border  with 
my  glass,  I  found  the  birds  and  recognized 
them  ere  they  flew,  uttering  the  same  sad  plaint 
I  had  heard  an  hour  before.  They  were  a  pair 
of  pine  grosbeaks,  "winter  robins"  as  the 
farmers  call  them;  one  a  male,  with  his  rosy 
breast,  the  other  his  Quaker  mate.  Flinging 
themselves  into  space,  they  flew  southwestward 
till  my  glass  could  follow  them  no  longer. 

Passing  through  the  beech  woods  on  my  way 
down  the  mountain,  I  noticed  how  much  more 
firmly  the  leaves  clung  to  the  young  trees  than 
to  the  older  ones.  Many  of  them,  if  pulled 
steadily  by  the  tip,  tore  sooner  than  give  way 
at  the  stalk.  On  oak  and  poplar  sprouts  or 
suckers,  the  leaves  remain  much  longer  than  on 
old  wood ;  they  keep  their  rich  coloring  far  into 
November,  and  they  are  often  very  conspicuous 
by  reason  of  their  great  size. 

I  found  more  life  stirring  in  these  beech 
woods  than  anywhere  else.  Squirrels  both  red 
and  gray  were  hard  at  work  upon  the  ground, 


CHOCORUA  IN  NOVEMBER.  209 

gathering  winter  stores.  A  fine  gray,  on  seeing 
me,  scrambled  to  the  high  leafless  limbs  of  an 
oak,  becoming  there  much  more  conspicuous 
than  he  had  been  among  the  fallen  leaves. 

This  autumn  a  farmer  shot  a  gray  squirrel  and 
hung  it  in  his  shed.  The  cat  stole  the  squirrel 
and  shared  it  with  her  family.  Next  day,  puss 
went  gray-squirrel  hunting,  and  to  the  farmer's 
astonishment  captured  her  game  and  brought 
it  home.  The  squirrel  was  so  large  that  the  cat, 
to  avoid  tripping  over  it,  walked  backwards 
much  of  the  way,  pulling  it  after  her.  Thus 
far  for  her  thriving  family  puss  is  said  to  have 
secured  six  gray  squirrels. 

A  friend  of  mine,  while  hunting  this  fall  in 
a  grove  of  oaks,  noticed  a  large  gray  squirrel 
coming  directly  towards  him  through  the  woods, 
pursued  by  a  red  squirrel.  Chickaree  soon  saw 
his  danger  and  stopped,  but  the  gray  came 
slowly  on,  as  though  searching  for  something. 
The  hunter  stood  motionless,  wondering.  Nearer 
and  nearer  came  the  inquisitive  squirrel,  until  it 
reached  the  man's  feet  and  sniffed  at  his  gun- 
stock.  Its  eyes  seemed  to  have  been  injured  or 
to  be  partially  covered  by  a  morbid  growth. 
The  moment  the  man  moved  in  an  effort  to 
catch  the  creature  alive,  it  bounded  from  him 
and  disappeared. 


210    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

The  perfect  clearness  of  the  sky  lasted  until 
nightfall,  then  a  narrow  line  of  golden  orange 
light  separating  a  pale  silvery  sky  from  a  deep 
violet  earth  was  all  there  was  of  sunset. 


AMONG  THE   WINI>-SWEPT  LAKES. 

The  first  thing  which  I  saw  as  I  opened  my 
eyes  Monday  morning  was  the  tip  of  Passacon- 
away's  pyramid,  rosy  with  the  sun's  earliest 
rays,  and  hanging  like  a  great  pink  moon  be- 
tween the  soft  gray  of  a  hazy  sky  and  the  cold 
gray  of  the  misty  forests.  It  was  a  soft  morn- 
ing with  a  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky, 
yet  with  a  chill  in  the  air  which  hinted  of  snow. 
As  the  damp  wind  swept  across  the  snow-cov- 
ered peak  of  Chocorua,  its  moisture  was  con- 
densed, and  from  the  rock,  trailing  away  north- 
eastward like  a  huge  white  banner,  a  cloud 
streamer  waved  for  an  hour  in  the  hurrying 
wind.  Then  the  peak  was  overcome  by  the 
cloud  and  hidden  for  the  rest  of  the  day  in  a 
slowly  thickening  and  descending  pall. 

In  all  the  years  which  I  had  spent  in  wan- 
dering over  these  fair  hills,  I  never  had  explored 
Whitton  Pond.  Looking  down  upon  it  from 
the  snow-covered  mountain  yesterday,  it  had 
seemed  so  pleasant  to  the  eye  that  I  determined 
to  view  it  from  all  sides,  and  to  see  the  mighty 
form  of  Chocorua  reflected  in  its  clear  waters. 


212    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Towards  Whitton  Pond,  then,  I  directed  my 
steps  this  gray  morning. 

Taking  the  Conway  road  from  the  Chocorua 
House,  I  walked  northward  upon  it  rather  more 
than  three  miles  to  what  is  known  far  and  near 
in  this  country  as  the  Bell  Schoolhouse  in  Al- 
bany. Perhaps  the  bell  uses  its  tongue  in  dark 
nights  when  the  wild  storm-wind  sweeps  down 
from  Chocorua,  and  the  forest  groans  under  its 
stripes.  Certainly  its  tones  are  not  heard  in 
the  sunlit  hours,  as  the  bats  in  its  belfry  and 
the  spiders  in  its  schoolroom  can  bear  witness. 

As  I  passed  up  the  eastern  side  of  Chocorua 
Lake,  under  the  great  pines  which  guard  its 
shore,  a  flock  of  ducks  rose  from  the  water  and 
flew  towards  the  south,  then  wheeling,  returned 
and  vanished  far  in  the  north.  There  were 
seven  of  them,  six  flying  neck  and  neck  in  an 
even  row,  and  one  lagging  behind.  The  six 
were  apparently  snowy  white  with  dark  mark- 
ings on  heads  and  wings;  the  laggard  was  dark 
colored. 

One  often  hears  in  February  and  March  that 
signs  of  early  spring  are  growing  numerous, 
that  red  buds  are  swelling  on  the  maples,  cat- 
kins have  come  upon  the  alders,  and  that  many 
another  shrub  or  tree  is  pushing  out  its  new 
life.  Noticing  the  alder  catkins  swinging  in 
the  wind,  I  measured  several  and  foimd  them 


AMONG   THE   WIND-SWEPT  LAKES.       213 

already  from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half  long. 
Some  of  the  maples  were  noticeably  ruddy  in 
tone,  so  thick  and  red  were  their  buds.  Lucky 
it  is  for  the  grouse  that  buds  do  not  wait  for 
winter  to  go,  before  they  pack  away  the  sweet 
food  of  life  under  their  snug  jackets.  The 
grouse  could  give  an  eloquent  lecture  on  the 
pledges  of  the  spring  renaissance  which  are 
made  every  autumn  by  the  budding  trees. 

At  the  Bell  Schoolhouse  I  took  the  right- 
hand  road,  crossed  the  Chocorua  River,  a  slen- 
der run  at  this  point,  and  almost  immediately 
after  turned  again  to  the  right,  taking  an  old 
road  leading  eastward  over  the  hills  to  Madison 
village.  The  road  was  a  new  one  to  me,  but  I 
knew  that  it  led  through  one  of  the  saddest 
regions  in  the  Bearcamp  valley.  A  generation 
ago  the  "North  Division"  was  comparatively 
thickly  settled.  More  than  a  dozen  comfortable 
sets  of  buildings  were  tenanted  on  those  sunny 
slopes.  Children  flocked  to  the  little  school- 
house,  corn  rustled  in  the  fields,  and  farmer's 
"gee"  echoed  back  to  farmer's  "wah-hish" 
from  the  plowings  or  wood-lot.  Now  the  porcu- 
pine and  the  skunk,  the  chimney  swift  and  the 
adder  are  the  undisputed  owners  of  the  deserted 
farms.  The  people  have  gone  as  though  the 
plague  had  smitten  the  land,  and  houses,  barns, 
fences,  bridges,  and  well-sweeps  are  mouldering 


214  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

away  together.  Why  is  it?  Ask  the  West  and 
the  great  cities,  which  between  them  have 
drawn  the  young  blood  from  New  England's 
rural  families,  leaving  the  old  and  feeble  to 
struggle  alone  with  life  on  the  hills.  A  kind- 
lier region  than  this  could  be  depopulated  by 
such  a  process. 

The  most  remote  and  the  highest  farm  in  the 
North  Division  shone,  as  we  approached  it, 
like  a  brass  button.  Carpenters,  painters,  and 
home-makers  had  been  at  work  upon  it  until 
the  hills  and  trees  knew  it  for  its  old  self  no 
longer.  Nevertheless  it  was  as  empty  and 
silent  as  the  decaying  farmsteads  below.  Gaz- 
ing from  its  terrace  upon  the  far  view  of  Ossi- 
pee  Lake,  the  broad  Bearcamp  valley,  and  the 
semicircle  of  hills  and  mountains  from  Wake- 
field to  Chocorua,  I  understood  why  its  present 
owner  came  from  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan 
to  spend  his  summer  in  its  beautiful  quiet. 

Behind  this  redeemed  fragment  of  the  North 
Division  rises  a  granite  ledge,  from  which 
matchless  views  of  many  mountains,  lakes,  and 
sleepy  hollows  can  be  obtained.  I  found  the 
ledge  covered  with  snow,  and  the  spruce  woods 
on  its  steep  northern  slope  as  full  of  snow  as 
the  thickets  on  Chocorua's  ridges.  At  this 
season  a  slight  elevation  and  shade  make  all  the 
difference  between  summer  and  winter. 


AMONG   THE  WIND-SWEPT  LAKES.       215 

From  the  ledge  I  could  see  the  whole  of 
Whitton  Pond,  lying  just  below  me.  It  looked 
like  a  silver  Maltese  cross  with  its  four  arms 
reaching  out  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass. 
A  small  island  and  one  or  two  single  rocks  rose 
from  its  surface.  At  least  three  bluff  head- 
lands, pine-crowned  and  rock-faced,  stood  out 
boldly  into  its  waters.  Just  across  its  eastern 
side,  and  due  north  from  the  elevation  upon 
which  I  was  standing,  rose  an  impressive  hill 
whose  precipitous  southern  side  was  formed  of 
a  series  of  polished  ledges  sloping  directly 
towards  the  deep  waters  of  the  lake.  In  the 
depths  below  those  ledges  large  trout  are  said 
to  live  in  a  state  of  haughty  contempt  for  all 
except  favored  anglers.  I  once  asked  a  native, 
presumably  not  a  favorite  of  the  Whitton  Pond 
trout,  whether  he  would  advise  me  to  go  to  the 
pond  fishing.  Turning  his  gray  eye  upon  me, 
he  said  solemnly,  "Young  man,  ef  I  had  the 
ch'ice  of  fishing  all  day  in  Whitton  Pond  05  in 
this  sandy  road,  I  'd  take  the  road  every  time." 

A  logging  road  led  from  the  back  of  the  ledge 
down  to  the  pond.  In  the  dark  spruces  near 
the  water  stood  a  tiny  and  dilapidated  log  hut 
and  stable.  So  small  was  the  hut,  it  seemed  as 
though  only  one  lumberman  could  have  lived 
there.  From  the  hut  the  road  led  straight  to 
the  lakeside,   and  to  as  lovely  a  view  of  the 


216  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

eastern  flank  of  Chocorua  as  can  be  won  any. 
where.  All  that  I  had  imagined  yesterday  as 
I  stood  on  those  far  ramparts  was  now  made 
real.  Here  was  the  ruffled  water,  the  pine- 
capped  headlands,  the  guardian  ledges;  there 
was  the  stern  fortress  lifting  its  rock  face  and 
ragged  outlines  high  against  the  sky.  As  the 
mists  hurried  over  the  peak,  they  suggested 
smoke  from  cannon  fired  from  this  Gibraltar 
of  nature.  Here  and  there  spruces,  standing 
in  the  clouds  upon  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
looked  like  the  dim  forms  of  men  guarding  the 
heights. 

As  the  water  was  very  low,  a  narrow  pebbly 
and  rocky  strip  of  beach  offered  an  easy  way 
round  the  lake.  I  followed  it  through  the  east- 
em  coves  to  the  northern  shore,  where  the  slip- 
pery ledges,  one  above  another,  hung  over  me. 
Many  boulders  of  large  size  and  odd  outlines 
lay  upon  the  shore,  with  the  waves  raised  by  the 
south  wind  splashing  against  them.  Here  the 
beach  failed  me,  and  I  had  to  force  my  way 
westward  through  the  woods  and  undergrowtlr 
to  the  outlet  of  the  pond.  Considering  that  the 
lake  was  about  a  mile  square,  the  stream  which 
escaped  from  it  was  singularly  small.  I  crossed 
it  with  a  single  stride.  At  high  water  it  is 
probably  much  larger,  for  a  dozen  or  more  great 
logs  pushed  far  up  on  the  rocks  show  that  the 


AMONG  THE  WIND-SWEPT  LAKES.       217 

rivTilet  of  to-day  gives  no  suggestion  of  the  force 
of  water  sometimes  at  work. 

From  the  outlet  to  the  highway  was  less  than 
ten  minutes'  walk,  a  footpath  bringing  me  to 
one  of  the  many  abandoned  farms  of  tmfortu- 
nate  Albany.  Unfortunate  no  longer,  I  hope, 
for  with  debt  paid,  taxes  reduced,  and  Imnber- 
ing  on  the  decline,  the  township  ought  to  revive, 
partly  through  ordinary  settlement,  but  mainly 
through  the  influx  of  city  people  to  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  spots  in  New  Hampshire. 

My  walk  back  to  the  hotel  took  me  round 
Chocorua  Lake,  while  pictures  of  Whitton  Pond 
were  still  vivid  in  my  memory.  I  confess  to  a 
sudden  feeling  of  jealousy  for  the  newly  ex- 
plored pond  when  I  looked  at  the  simpler  out- 
lines of  my  favorite  water,  and  wondered  how  a 
wooded  island  and  bluff  headlands  would  be- 
come it.  Whitton  Pond  is  certainly  too  exqui- 
site a  bit  of  nature  to  remain  long  a  wilderness ; 
while  to  give  up  its  lofty  ledges  to  quarrymeu 
would  be  little  less  than  a  crime. 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  between  the  lakes, 
the  coloring  was  full  of  sadness.  The  long-de- 
ferred rain  was  coming  across  the  mountains. 
Their  tops  were  concealed,  and  only  the  dim- 
mest, most  tearful  vision  of  their  flanks  re- 
mained. Gray  and  cold,  cold  and  gray,  moun- 
tain, sky,  forest,  and  lake,  aU  were  the  same. 


218    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

The  cry  of  a  pileated  woodpecker  and  the  sput- 
tering complaint  of  a  Hudson  Bay  titmouse 
rang  in  my  ears.  Birds  of  the  north,  strangers 
to  these  cherished  spots,  why  were  they  here  ? 
Why  were  their  voices  full  of  weird  warning? 
The  rain  came  softly,  surely  onward,  over  the 
glassy  water,  and  with  a  shiver  I  hurried  to- 
wards the  fireside.  After  all,  men,  like  birds 
and  insects,  flowers  and  leaves,  feel  the  chill  of 
autumn  and  tremble  at  it.  Full  as  the  season 
may  be  of  eternal  promise,  it  is  charged  also 
with  a  message  of  present  death  and  decay. 
Leaves  wither  and  fall,  flowers  drop  their  petals 
and  turn  to  seeds,  the  locust  dies  in  the  grass, 
the  bird  takes  wing  and  saves  his  life  by  finding 
a  gentler  clime  in  the  far  south,  and  man,  if  he 
is  to  linger  under  Chocorua's  lee,  must  gather 
his  corn  into  barns,  pile  his  shed  full  of  wood, 
and  fortify  his  mind  to  endure  long  nights,  in- 
tense cold,  deep  snows,  the  wailing  of  wintry 
winds,  and  the  gruesome  voice  of  the  lake  as  the 
ice  throttles  it.  If  the  heart  is  brave  and  serene, 
there  is  peace  in  the  long  nights,  pleasure  in 
the  cold,  joy  in  snowshoe  races  on  the  snow,  and 
exhilaration  in  the  wailing  of  the  wind  and  the 
moaning  of  the  lake.  As  the  viking  exulted  in 
sailing  his  ship  through  the  fierce  gale  of  the 
north,  so  his  offspring  can  find  joy  in  the  win- 
try breath  of  Chocorua. 


'LECTION  DAY,    '92. 

Tuesday,  the  8th  of  November,  1892,  be- 
longs to  history  now,  but  when  it  began  it  was 
only  an  ordinary  'lection  day.  Floods  of  night 
rain  had  washed  the  high  peaks  clear  of  snow, 
and  at  dawn  the  golden  clouds  swept  eastward, 
and  the  fairest  of  November  days  began  its 
course.  All  the  horses  and  all  the  men  turned 
their  noses  towards  the  wooden  town-house  in 
Tam worth  village;  and  by  nine  o'clock  long 
lines  of  wagons  streamed  under  the  two  cam- 
paign flags,  across  the  bridge  over  rushing  Pau- 
gus  River,  and  up  to  the  stores  where  the  smoke 
of  pipes  and  the  sound  of  laughter  proclaimed 
the  swarming  of  man.  It  was  an  occasion  of 
more  than  usual  interest,  for  not  only  was  the 
great  ex-president  to  test  his  tariff-reform  lance 
against  the  silver  shield  of  his  once  successful 
rival,  but  New  Hampshire  in  general,  and  Tam- 
worth  in  particular,  were  to  try  the  Australian 
ballot  system. 

"Now,  Jim,"  said  the  committee-man,  "re- 
member to  make  a  cross  against  the  name  of 
every  Democrat.     Take  your  time,  and  look  for 


220  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

the  letter  D.  Wherever  you  see  D,  put  down 
your  cross."  Then  a  sample  ballot  was  dis- 
played to  Jim,  and  that  worthy  child  of  'Quebec 
proved  the  truth  of  his  assertion  that  he  could 
*'read  D  in  English  evvy  time,  sir." 

Just  before  ten,  the  three  stores  gave  up 
their  crowds  in  favor  of  the  growing  swarm  in 
front  of  the  town-house.  It  was  a  strange  com- 
mingling of  men.  The  bone  and  sinew  of  rural 
New  England  were  there,  and  so  were  the  gristle, 
the  fat,  and  the  lean.  Men  weU  past  ninety 
tottered  feebly  to  the  benches  which  flanked  the 
broad  open  floor  of  the  hall.  Young  fellows, 
just  of  age,  stepped  briskly  in  and  went  to  the 
platform  to  see  that  their  names  had  been 
duly  added  to  the  printed  check-list  of  voters. 
Gaimt,  loose-jointed,  thin -faced  men,  in  worn 
shoddy,  the  modern  successor  of  honest  home- 
spun, dragged  themselves  through  the  crowd, 
answering  salutations  with  grim  indifference. 
Big,  burly  men  with  broad,  gray  felt  hats  and 
scarlet  flannel  leggings  strode  in  more  confi- 
dently, fresh  from  the  spruce  woods.  Well- 
dressed,  clean-shaven  men  with  city  hats  and 
big  watch-chains  shook  hands  with  everybody, 
and  with  a  hand  on  John's  shoulder  or  Edson's 
elbow  whispered  a  word  in  the  young  voter's 
ear.  The  New  England  farmer  or  lumberman 
does  not  ride  horseback.     He  probably  knows 


'LECTION  DAT,   '92.  221 

how  well  enough,  but  his  roads  have  no  clay 
mud,  his  wagon  runs  easily,  so  he  drives  instead 
of  riding.  Not  one  man  in  fifty  owns  a  saddle. 
Who  is  it,  then,  that  comes  up  the  long  street 
at  a  breakneck  pace,  with  flapping  hat,  trailing 
whip,  and  rattling  spurs?  He  rides  well,  and 
has  a  dashing  air  about  him  strangely  in  con- 
trast to  the  slouch  of  the  man  who  always  drives, 
with  shoulders  hunched  and  back  curved.  He 
proves  to  be  a  city  man  who  has  had  enough  of 
a  ranch  and  is  now  extracting  occupation  from 
a  farm  and  summer  boarders. 

Now  a  silk  hat  and  a  satin  necktie  loom  up 
in  the  throng.  They  grace  a  sleek  son  of  the 
town  who  has  a  store  "down  country,"  but  who 
comes  home  to  vote.  The  silk  hat  looks 
strangely  out  of  place  among  the  well-worn  felts 
and  woolen  caps  which  cover  most  of  the  heads 
in  the  crowd. 

The  beU  in  the  meeting-house  tower  moves, 
and  then  its  clang  strikes  harshly  on  the  ear. 
Half  a  mile  away  it  would  be  sweet-toned;  here 
it  is  merely  discordant.  The  men  straggle  into 
the  town-house  in  large  groups,  and  soon  the 
room  is  crowded.  Good  air  goes  out  by  the 
chimney  when  the  smokers  come  in  by  the  door. 
The  supervisors  are  in  their  seats,  and  an  ex- 
cited discussion  is  taking  place  in  which  they 
and  many  in  the  crowd  join.     An  oldish  man 


222  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

and  a  foreigner  who  served  in  the  late  civil  war 
has  just  produced  his  naturalization  papers  and 
demanded  to  have  his  name  placed  upon  the 
check-list.  The  officers  object,  and  point  to  the 
book  of  statutes  open  before  them,  where  a  sec- 
tion states  that  no  name  shall  be  added  to  the 
list  at  this  late  hour  except  by  way  of  restoring 
a  name  wrongfully  dropped  from  an  earlier  list. 
The  claimant  declares  that  his  name  was  or 
ought  to  have  been  on  an  earlier  list;  a  candi- 
date for  office  springs  upon  a  chair  and  shouts 
to  the  supervisors  that  he  will  "make  it  hot" 
for  them  if  they  refuse  the  veteran  his  suffrage ; 
the  crowd  cheers,  and  the  officers  yield.  Then 
the  warrant  for  the  meeting  is  read,  and  imme- 
diately after  an  elder  offers  prayer,  the  hats  and 
caps  being  doffed  in  obedience  to  a  loud  call  of 
"hats  off."  The  prayer  is  simple  and  earnest, 
asking  for  help  in  a  freeman's  highest  duty. 
A  moderator  is  chosen,  and  he  delivers  a  brief 
and  clear  lecture  upon  the  machinery  of  the  new 
ballot  law.  Then  a  resolution  is  passed  with  a 
shout,  allowing  the  old  men  to  vote  first,  and 
the  graybeards  are  pushed  gently  forward  to  the 
inclosed  space  in  which  the  five  little  voting 
booths  are  built. 

The  voters  are  kept  waiting  half  an  hour,  be- 
cause at  first  no  one  can  open  the  patent  ballot 
box,  but  at  last  it  gives  way  to  some  persuasive 


^LECTION  DAY,   '92.  223 

touch  and  the  day's  work  is  fairly  begun.  By 
noon  about  fifty  men  have  passed  the  guard, 
taken  their  folded  ballots,  entered  the  little 
booths,  and  spent  from  two  to  ten  minutes  each 
in  marking  or  trying  to  mark  for  their  favorite 
candidates. 

"This  is  a  great  thing  for  the  fools,"  said  an 
old  farmer;  "they  can  look  just  as  wise  as  the 
wisest  of  us,  but  they  nor  nobody  else  will  ever 
know  just  who  they  voted  for." 

One  man,  after  entering  the  booth,  came  out 
and  said  he  wanted  some  one  to  mark  for  him. 
"Step  this  way,"  shouted  the  moderator,  "and 
take  your  solemn  oath  that  you  cannot  read 
your  ballot  and  must  have  help  in  marking  it." 
"I  won't  swear  to  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
the  man  indignantly,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
booth.  The  crowd  became  impatient  at  the 
delay,  and  began  to  push  hard  for  the  narrow 
entrance.  Strong  men  cried  out  in  pain  or 
anger ;  the  stove  tottered  and  part  of  the  pipe 
fell,  scattering  soot  on  the  nearest  heads;  the 
moderator  thundered  rebukes,  and  several  men 
went  home  disgusted  with  the  new-fangled  sys- 
tem, only  to  be  dragged  back  later  by  the  com- 
mittees of  their  respective  parties. 

Back  of  the  town-house,  Paugus  River,  well 
filled  by  the  night's  rain  and  the  melted  snow 
from  the  mountains,  rushed  noisily  through  its 


224  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

rock-cholced  bed.  I  escaped  from  the  hustling 
crowd  in  the  hot  hall,  and  watched  the  eager 
current  till  my  eyes  and  ears  were  cleared  of 
smoke  and  empty  laughter,  and  a  taste  of  some- 
thing sweeter  than  politics  was  left  on  my 
tongue.  The  river,  with  its  bright  water,  was 
following  its  course  towards  the  Bearcamp  and 
the  sea,  because  for  time  out  of  mind  it  had 
flowed  that  way  and  knew  no  other.  Most  of 
the  men  inside  the  hall  were  acting  their  parts 
with  much  the  same  intelligence,  and  marking 
wherever  they  saw  the  letter  R,  or  the  letter  D, 
not  because  they  knew  what  those  two  great 
letters  were  struggling  for  this  day  in  all  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  Union,  but  because 
for  years  they  had  worshiped  the  one  and  hated 
the  other  with  the  fetich-maker's  fervor. 

A  bright-faced,  blue-eyed  committee-man, 
just  old  enough  to  cast  his  first  vote  for  his 
party's  hero,  came  to  call  me  to  the  dinner  set 
for  those  who  had  come  from  a  distance  to  vote. 
After  dinner  I  took  my  share  of  the  bone -crush- 
ing process  inside  the  hall,  marked  my  long 
ballot,  and  started  at  once  for  the  city.  First 
my  friend's  wagon  rolled  along  the  pleasant 
Bearcamp  valley  to  the  pine  plains.  Turning  a 
little  aside,  we  drove  past  White  Pond,  a  shal- 
low, mirror-like  lake  in  the  heart  of  the  plain, 
framed  in  snowy  sand  and  gaunt  pines.     The 


^LECTION  DA  F,  '92.  225 

view  of  the  Sandwich  range  across  this  lake  is 
exquisite  at  all  times,  but  to-day,  with  the  dark 
blue  water  dancing  towards  us  in  thousands  of 
foam-capped  waves,  and  the  mountains  standing 
out  sharply  against  the  pale  blue  sky,  it  was 
more  than  usually  charming.  Half  a  dozen 
wood-ducks  were  floating  in  the  midst  of  the 
restless  waves,  not  far  from  the  shore.  They 
paid  no  heed  to  our  wagon  as  it  crept  through 
the  sand  on  the  beach. 

When  we  reached  the  West  Ossipee  stage 
road  I  bade  my  friend  good-by,  and  strolled  to- 
wards the  station  alone.  The  south-bound  train 
was  not  due  till  five,  and  it  was  now  only  half 
past  two.  The  railway  track  was  not  more  than 
half  a  mile  distant  across  the  pine  plains,  so, 
leaving  the  muddy  road,  I  passed  into  the  pines, 
following  an  obscure  wood-path. 

Presently  the  path  became  plainer,  and  as  I 
glanced  along  its  vista,  my  eye  caught  a  flash  of 
bright  yellow  gleaming  from  something  at  a  dis- 
tance. The  object  was  shaped  like  a  chimney, 
but  it  seemed  to  spring  from  the  ground  among 
the  scrub-oaks.  The  path  began  to  descend,  at 
first  gradually,  then  more  abruptly,  and  I  dis- 
covered that  there  was  winding  through  the 
barrens  ahead  of  me  a  small  river,  which  a 
moment's  consideration  told  me  must  be  the 
Chocorua  Eiver,  on  its  way  to  the  Bearcamp. 


226  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Beyond  the  river  was  a  small  clearing  and  in  it 
stood  a  red  and  white  house  with  brilliant  yellow 
chimneys.  Then  the  land  rose  again  abruptly, 
inclosing  the  little  meadow  and  its  cottage  be- 
tween high  walls  of  sand,  scrub,  and  pines. 

Surprised  to  find  an  inhabited  house  in  the 
heart  of  the  plains,  where  I  had  supposed  no- 
thing but  mayflowers  and  chewinks  lived  to 
break  the  monotony  of  scrub  and  pine,  I  pushed 
on  to  learn  more  of  the  place.  When  the  path 
came  to  the  river  it  crossed  by  a  rustic  bridge 
formed  of  a  large  bow-shaped  tree  with  pieces 
of  board  nailed  to  it,  and  a  strong  hand-rail 
braced  among  its  broken  branches.  The  bridge 
was  really  artistic,  as  well  as  ingenious  in  con- 
struction. From  its  farther  end  I  could  see  the 
whole  of  the  tiny  valley  of  which  the  mysterious 
house  was  the  gay  capital.  Five  or  six  acres 
of  grass-land  and  pasture  were  surrounded  by 
woods  and  sand  hills.  Three  cows  fed  along 
the  river  bank.  Near  the  house  was  a  neatly 
fenced  garden,  and  as  I  came  to  the  fence  I 
found  it  crossed  by  a  real  stile  with  three  steps 
up  and  two  steps  down,  and  a  rail  to  lean  upon. 

My  approach  had,  ere  this,  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  the  inhabitants  of  the  hidden  valley, 
and  five  heads  were  visible  at  windows,  house 
angle,  and  fence  corners.  I  crossed  the  stile 
and  gained  the  little   piazza.      The   garrison 


'LECTION  DAT,   '92.  227 

massed  around  its  commander  and  mother,  who 
was  ironing  a  white  apron  on  the  kitchen  table. 
Strong,  plump,  and  smiling,  she  was  proud  of 
her  little  army,  —  a  boy  of  fourteen,  with  soft 
black  eyes,  black  hair,  and  the  rich  color  of  the 
Acadian  peasant  glowing  on  his  cheeks;  three 
tow-headed  girls,  with  their  mother's  blue  eyes, 
and  a  fifth,  a  girl  of  two  summers,  with  beauty 
and  dignity  enough  for  a  duke's  darling.  No 
overtures  of  mine  were  sufficient  to  conquer 
this  haughty  little  being's  reserve.  She  would 
have  nothing  of  me,  and  finally  intimated  a 
desire  that  I  should  move  on,  and  leave  her 
tmdisturbed  in  her  apple-eating.  This  I  did, 
taking  a  farewell  look  at  the  cozy  house  from 
the  crest  of  the  sand-hills  which  rose  between 
it  and  the  railway.  From  the  ridge  I  could  see 
many  a  mile  of  forest,  and  many  a  mountain 
peak,  none  fairer  than  Chocorua.  A  grouse 
rose  from  the  scrub  at  my  feet,  and  flew  nearly 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  before  alighting. 

The  little  child's  beauty  haunted  me  as  I 
strolled  down  the  railway  track,  and  I  won- 
dered what  her  future  would  be  if  she  grew  up 
in  that  snug  nook  in  the  woods  and  sand ;  what 
her  character  would  be  with  its  mingling  of  Cel- 
tic, Gallic,  and  Saxon  elements;  frozen  in  the 
northern  winter  and  burned  under  the  hot  sum- 
mer suns  of  the  Ossipee  plains. 

At  last  the  train  came  and  bore  me  away 


228  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

towards  the  city.  The  sun  sank  in  orange 
splendor  behind  the  Ossipees,  and  then  the 
night  overwhelmed  color  and  form  in  its  shad- 
ows, and  left  the  mind  freer  in  its  musings. 
What  had  the  day  brought  forth  at  the  polls? 
Had  the  party  of  past  glories  and  present  decay 
■won  another  of  its  wonderful  series  of  victories, 
or  had  the  people  risen  in  their  might  and 
spoken  for  reform  ?  I  hoped  for  some  gleam  of 
news  before  the  journey  was  over,  but  Ports- 
mouth, Newburyport,  Salem,  and  Lynn  were 
all  passed  without  tidings  of  what  the  day  had 
done.  Even  in  Boston,  with  its  narrow  streets 
filled  with  restless  rivers  of  men  and  women, 
there  seemed  to  be  no  word  of  victory  or  defeat. 
At  half  past  ten  I  reached  a  small  room  high 
in  one  of  the  great  newspaper  offices  on  Wash- 
ington Street.  Its  windows  looked  out  upon 
a  strange  sight.  Far  below  me  was  a  vast  ex- 
panse of  human  heads  upon  which  shone  the 
bluish  white  glare  of  the  hooded  electric  lamps. 
As  white  bubbles,  densely  spread  upon  the  pale 
green  of  the  ocean's  water  in  some  rock-rimmed 
grotto,  surge  now  out,  now  in ;  to  left,  to  right ; 
advancing,  retreating;  crowding  or  separating; 
so  those  countless  human  heads  swayed  first  one 
way,  then  another,  moved  by  fickle  eddies  and 
forces  hard  to  understand.  Wild  cries  came 
from  the  crowd,  cheers,  jeers,  and  yells  of  pain 
or  brutal  merriment. 


'LECTION  DAY,  '92.  229 

Inside  the  room  the  wearisome  clicking  of  a 
telegraph  operator's  machine  charmed  a  circle 
of  eager  men  and  women.  As  sheet  after  sheet 
was  written  by  the  operator,  they  passed  from 
hand  to  hand.  Some  of  those  present  read 
them  nervously,  others,  really  intensely  con- 
cerned, seemed  almost  indifferent.  Now  and 
then  hearty  applause  greeted  a  dispatch,  or 
deep  regret  was  expressed  at  some  friend's  de- 
feat ;  but  as  a  rule  the  fragmentary  news  was 
received  silently.  Midnight  passed,  and  then, 
as  the  morning  hours  wore  on,  we  knew  that 
the  people  had  achieved  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able transfers  of  political  power  ever  accom- 
plished in  the  Union.  Still,  the  result  in  Mas- 
sachusetts was  in  doubt,  and  even  those  who 
watched  until  dawn  finally  sought  sleep  without 
knowing  how  the  smaller  cities  had  settled  the 
great  governorship  contest. 

Before  sleep  came  to  me,  a  panorama  of  the 
day  swept  in  feverish  review  across  my  closed 
eyelids.  I  saw  the  surging  mob  in  Washington 
Street,  the  group  around  the  telegraph  machine, 
the  motley  crowd  in  the  Tam  worth  town -hall, 
the  baby  beauty  of  the  Ossipee  plains,  and  then, 
like  a  benediction,  came  a  vision  of  Chocorua, 
snow-capped  and  immutable  in  a  pale  blue  sky, 
with  the  rosy  light  of  the  clear  November  morn- 
ing flooding  its  wondrous  peak. 


A  WINTRY   WILDERNESS. 

North  of  the  Sandwich  Mountains,  inclosed 
by  a  circle  of  sombre  peaks,  there  once  lay  a 
beautiful  lake.  Centuries  ago  its  outflowing 
stream,  now  called  Swift  Eiver,  cut  so  deeply 
between  the  spurs  of  Chocorua  and  Bear  moun- 
tains that  the  greater  part  of  the  lake  drained 
away  into  the  Saco  at  Conway,  leaving  its  level 
bed  a  fair  and  rich-soiled  intervale. 

By  the  road  upon  which  the  lake  went  out 
man  in  time  came  in,  and  founded  in  the  bosom 
of  the  spruce-grown  mountains  a  small  but 
comparatively  prosperous  settlement.  Having 
seen  this  hidden  valley  in  summer,  and  taken 
account  of  its  rare  beauty  and  its  remoteness 
from  the  wearisome  machinery  of  the  world,  I 
yearned  to  know  its  winter  charms,  feeling  sure 
that  they  would  surpass  those  of  summer  as  the 
fairness  of  snow  surpasses  the  fairness  of  grass. 
Accordingly,  in  the  latter  part  of  December, 
1891,  I  went  by  rail  with  a  friend  to  Chatauque 
Corner,  and  thence  by  sleigh  up  the  weird  pass 
between  Chocorua  on  the  south  and  Moat  and 
Bear  mountains  on  the  north,  gaining  at  night- 


A  WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  231 

fall  a  warm  haven  in  one  of  the  snug  farmhouses 
in  the  middle  of  the  intervale. 

The  township  of  Albany  knows  no  priest  or 
physician,  squire  or  shopkeeper,  and  in  its  coat 
of  arms,  if  it  had  one,  the  plow  and  rifle,  axe 
and  circular  saw,  would  be  quartered  with  bear 
and  porcupine,  owl  and  grouse.  From  the  head 
of  the  intervale  the  people  are  forced  to  travel 
nearly  thirty  miles  to  reach  and  bring  home 
their  mail  and  groceries.  In  spite  of  these 
drawbacks,  the  permanent  residents  are  intelli- 
gent, thrifty,  well-housed,  and  well  informed 
of  the  world's  doings.  Though  their  only  road 
to  the  outside  is  long  and  rough,  they  let  no 
moss  gather  on  it  in  simmaer,  and  no  snowdrifts 
blockade  it  in  winter. 

Setting  out  for  this  far  valley  in  midwinter, 
I  felt  something  of  the  explorer's  thrill  as  he 
turns  towards  the  unknown,  and  leaves  home 
and  comforts  behind.  The  distant  and  the  diffi- 
cult of  attainment  are  always  seen  by  the  mind 
through  a  golden  haze,  and  although  no  fair 
Lorna  drew  me  to  her  rescue,  and  no  lawless 
Doones  barred  my  way  through  the  grim  passes 
which  led  to  the  valley,  romance  and  the  spice 
of  danger  seemed  mingled  with  my  enterprise. 
As  the  journey  progressed,  and  one  stage  of  it 
after  another  slipped  past,  imreal  gave  way  to 
real,  and  commonplace  supplanted   marvelous. 


2S2   AT  TBE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

Even  when  night  fell,  as  we  entered  the  valley, 
the  light  which  gleamed  afar  through  the 
spruces  told  of  hospitality  as  truly  as  the  sleigh's 
ample  furs  spoke  of  comfort,  and  the  keen  wind 
of  health. 

We  reached  the  valley  on  the  evening  of  Sat- 
urday, December  19,  and  enjoyed  every  mo- 
ment of  our  stay,  which  was  prolonged  until 
Saturday,  the  26th.  From  my  journal,  written 
on  the  evening  of  each  day,  I  take  the  follow- 
ing account  of  our  wanderings. 

We  left  Chatauque  Corner  (Conway)  at  three 
o'clock,  well  packed  in  the  fur  robes  of  a  com- 
fortable two-seated  sleigh  and  drawn  by  a 
skinny  graduate  of  a  race-course.  It  was  an 
ideal  winter  afternoon,  blessing  an  ideal  North- 
ern landscape.  There  were  the  broad  Saco  in- 
tervales flat  with  snow,  the  pale  blue  sky  with 
a  fringe  of  cloud-banks,  and  between  intervale 
and  sky,  mountains  of  marble  and  ramparts  of 
dark  evergreens.  Straight  up  the  Saco  valley 
the  immense  mass  of  Mount  Washington  rose 
against  the  sky.  It  was  wholly  covered  by 
snow.  On  its  left,  Moat,  like  a  breaking  wave 
of  the  sea,  was  close  at  hand.  On  its  right. 
Carter  Notch,  with  walls  of  dull  purplish-black 
spruce,  reached  to  where  stately  Mount  Pe- 
quawket  reared  its  dark  cone  on  high.  The 
Saco  splashed  in  its  rocky  bed.     Every  boulder 


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A  WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  233 

was  glazed  with  white  ice,  and  from  the  two 
banks  of  the  stream,  borders  of  ice  reached 
towards  each  other,  haK  concealing  the  greenish 
waters  which  lapped  their  edges. 

The  sleighing  was  excellent.  Not  more  than 
eight  inches  of  snow  had  fallen  during  the  week, 
and  it  was  the  first  enduring  fall  of  the  season. 
It  had  been  followed  by  a  dash  of  rain  and  then 
a  sudden  freeze.  After  going  a  mile  on  the 
North  Conway  road,  we  turned  to  the  left  into 
a  road  leading  westward  towards  the  narrow 
pass  between  Chocorua  and  Moat.  The  im- 
mense crags  of  Moat  frowned  upon  us.  Then 
we  plunged  into  a  pine  forest  and  felt  the  first 
chill  of  night.  As  we  sped  through  the  shadow, 
we  passed  the  skinned  carcass  of  an  ox  himg  by 
its  fore-legs  to  the  limb  of  a  pine.  A  strange 
slaughtering-place,  and  one  to  tempt  sniffing 
foxes  when  night  falls.  A  mile  farther  on,  the 
skull  of  a  bear  grinned  on  the  tip  of  a  pole  in 
the  brush  fence  by  the  roadside. 

Music  sounded  in  our  ears,  and  far  below  the 
narrow  road,  which  was  grooved  in  the  moun- 
tain-side, we  saw  Swift  River  plunging  from 
ledge  to  pool  on  its  way  to  the  Saco.  The  Saco 
had  seemed  wild  when  we  saw  it  in  Conway  in- 
tervale, but  this  stream's  madness  left  it  placid 
by  comparison.  Two  steep  slopes,  glare  with 
crusted  snow,  led  down  to  the  narrow  channel. 


234   AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

At  their  foot  boulders  of  every  shape  and  size 
fought  the  progress  of  the  water.  The  stream 
dashed  itself  against  them,  hurling  spray  into 
the  air;  the  spray  fell  upon  the  snow  and  froze, 
fell  upon  the  boulders  and  froze,  or  drained 
back  into  the  stream,  freezing  in  icicles  of  mar- 
velous forms.  The  water,  colored  doubtless  by 
the  mosses  and  weeds  below  its  surface,  was 
green,  —  a  cold,  pale  green,  —  with  something 
of  the  cruelty  of  a  winter  ocean  in  its  tones. 
Now  and  then  we  met  and  passed  sleds  heavily 
laden  with  lumber  or  logs.  One  load  of  birch 
logs  was  on  fire  at  the  hinder  end,  and  the  driver 
was  warming  his  hands  at  the  blaze.  A  few 
poor  farms  lined  the  road  at  points  where  small 
patches  of  tillable  land  were  to  be  found  be- 
tween the  rocky  fingers  of  Moat.  As  we  passed 
one  of  these  farms  a  flock  of  two  dozen  or  more 
snow -buntings  rose  from  a  field  full  of  tall  weed- 
stalks  and  whirled  over  us  singing.  Their 
sweet  notes  fell  on  us  as  holy  water  falls  on  a 
kneeling  congregation. 

The  road  grew  steeper,  and  then  it  crossed 
the  river,  passing  through  a  huge  covered 
bridge,  and  soon  we  found  ourselves  inside  of 
the  portals  of  Chocorua  and  Moat,  with  the 
high  ridge  of  Bear  Mountain,  covered  with 
black  spruces,  barring  our  westward  way.  The 
wall  of  sullen  forest  seemed  without  a  cleft,  yet 


A  WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  236 

the  raging  river  which  met  us  told  of  a  way 
somewhere,  to  be  found  by  retracing  its  channel. 

In  the  midst  of  this  gloomy  hollow  in  the 
hills  we  found  a  slab  village.  A  dozen  or  fif- 
teen houses  stood  here,  but  no  smoke  curled 
from  their  chimneys.  Last  September  every 
house  was  occupied ;  now  the  foxes  roam  through 
the  deserted  settlement  unmolested.  The  saw- 
mill which  had  created  the  village  had  been 
burned  and  the  whole  population  had  vanished 
almost  as  swiftly  as  the  smoke  of  the  ruins. 
Not  so  the  hideous  scars  left  by  the  lumber- 
man's axe.     They  will  remain  for  many  a  day. 

By  a  series  of  sharp  ascents  we  gained  and 
passed  through  the  rift  in  the  mountain  wall 
made  centuries  ago  by  the  imprisoned  waters. 
In  this  rift  at  the  eastern  foot  of  Bear  Moun- 
tain, only  a  few  steps  from  the  roadside, 
are  the  picturesque  falls  of  Swift  River.  The 
treacherous  ice  and  the  gathering  darkness  for- 
bade our  going  to  the  giddy  margin  of  the  fall, 
and  we  dashed  on  into  the  hidden  valley,  the 
narrow,  mountain -girdled  intervale  of  which  we 
were  in  search.  As  we  left  the  forest  fringes 
of  Bear  Mountain  behind  us  and  emerged  in 
the  plain,  a  gorgeous  winter  sunset  gave  us 
welcome.  Over  the  blue  of  the  upper  sky,  in 
which  Jupiter  alone  sparkled  faintly,  were  scat- 
tered  countless   flakes  of  rosy  cloud.     Below 


236    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

them  a  broad  black  band  of  cloud  cut  the  sky 
at  the  level  of  several  mountain  peaks,  and  be- 
low this  sinister  bar,  showing  only  in  the  gaps 
between  the  mountains,  was  a  space  of  greenish 
silver,  into  which  thousands  of  spruces  reared 
their  slender  spires. 

Taking  fresh  courage,  our  horse  carried  us 
over  the  fifteenth  mile  at  racing  speed.  The 
road  was  level.  On  the  right  the  flat,  white 
intervale  shone  in  the  pale  light  as  in  distant 
ages  the  face  of  the  great  mountain  lake  shone 
in  silent  winter  nights.  Westward,  across  the 
end  of  the  intervale,  were  Tripyramid,  Kan- 
camagus,  and  Osceola  mountains;  northward, 
Green's  Cliffs,  Carrigain,  Lowell,  Owl's  Head, 
and  Tremont  Mountain  stood  shoulder  to  shoid- 
der  in  double  rank.  Behind  us,  dark  Bear 
Mountain  concealed  Moat,  while  spurs  of  Cho- 
corua  reached  down  to  the  road.  On  the  left 
was  Paugus,  crouching  at  the  foot  of  Passa- 
conaway,  which  dominated  over  the  valley  with 
gloomy  majesty.  A  bright  light  gleamed 
through  the  spruces,  the  Carrigain  House  lay 
there  between  black  forest  and  pale  snow,  May- 
hew's  lantern  swung  to  and  fro,  and  his  deep 
voice  welcomed  us  to  his  cheerful  home  in  the 
heart  of  the  wintry  wilderness. 

Those  who  live  in  the  city  have  an  idea  that 
it  is  hard  to  keep  warm  in  these  northern  farm- 


A   WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  237 

houses,  with  their  single  windows,  thin  walls, 
and  wood  fires.  They  are  wrong.  There  is  a 
degree  of  heat  attainable  in  a  small  room,  armed 
with  an  air-tight  stove,  which  burns  birch  sticks 
or  slabs  almost  as  fast  as  they  can  be  fed  to  it, 
that  is  able  to  hold  its  own  against  the  equator 
at  midsummer.  It  takes  courage,  on  a  cold 
morning  before  sunrise,  to  leave  a  warm  bed  to 
start  a  fire  in  one  of  these  stoves ;  but  when  the 
fire  is  fully  aroused,  cold  is  put  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, or  at  least  out  of  doors. 

After  a  hot  supper  we  put  on  our  coats  and 
furs  and  went  out  into  the  night.  I  had  the 
same  feeling  of  reverence  and  quiet  that  I  have 
in  going  into  a  dimly -lighted  cathedral.  The 
stars  flickered  on  high,  the  snow  gleamed  below, 
on  every  side  mountain  peaks  guarded  the  nar- 
row valley.  In  the  spruce  woods,  which  reach 
from  the  road  back  to  Paugus,  the  darkness  was 
intense.  We  listened.  At  first  there  seemed 
to  be  no  sound  to  hear.  Then  the  whisper  of 
Swift  Eiver  came  out  of  the  north,  and  the  bark 
of  a  dog  far  up  the  valley  told  of  a  fox  prowling 
too  near  the  farmyard.  Suddenly,  from  a  bank 
of  silver  light  back  of  Carrigain,  two  long 
tongues  of  pallid  fire  shot  upward  into  the  sky 
and  trembled  there,  only  to  disappear  as 
abruptly  as  they  came.  Although  the  dim  au- 
roral glow  stayed  in  the  north  for  some  time,  I 
saw  no  more  radiating  light. 


238  AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

It  was  but  little  after  eight  o'clock  when 
we  sought  sleep  and  found  it  quickly  between 
feathers  below  and  mighty  piles  of  blankets  and 
comforters  above. 

Untroubled  moonlight  flooded  Swift  Kiver 
intervale  all  night,  and  there  was  still  more  of 
moonlight  than  of  daylight  when  our  host  came 
into  our  room  in  the  morning  to  light  our  fire. 
The  winter  working  -  costume  of  our  host  de- 
serves mention.  His  brown  cardigan  jacket 
was  not  remarkable,  but  his  legs  were  marvel- 
ously  encased.  They  began  at  the  body  with 
ample  woolen  trousers,  half  way  between  the 
hip  and  knee  gave  way  to  tightly -fitting  scarlet 
wrappings  which  reached  to  low  rubbers,  cover- 
ing the  feet.  Nimble  of  foot,  and  of  wiry  frame, 
the  wearer  of  these  remarkably  unpuritanical 
nether  garments  was  a  most  enlivening  figure 
in  the  snow. 

Encouraged  by  our  fire,  we  arose  with  the  sun. 
The  mountains  in  the  north  were  bathed  in  rosy 
light.  Dark  as  were  their  forests,  each  of  these 
mountains  presented  snow -covered  ledges,  or 
avalanche  scars  white  with  snow.  Upon  these 
white  surfaces  the  sunlight  fell  with  that  soft 
blush  which  makes  a  winter  sunrise  so  charm- 
ingly full  of  promise.  We  hastened  out  of 
doors  as  soon  as  dressed,  and  were  at  once 
greeted  by  joyous  voices.     A  red  squirrel  in 


A  WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  239 

the  dark  spruces  was  whirling  his  watchman's 
rattle ;  far  away  in  the  forest  a  woodpecker  was 
drumming  on  a  resonant  tree-trunk ;  but  near 
at  hand,  only  across  one  snow-covered  field,  a 
chorus  of  bird  voices  quivered  in  the  still,  cold 
air.     The  air  was  cold,  that  was  true.     Zero 
was  the  point  the  mercury  held  to,  and  as  we 
took  long  breaths  of  the  pure  air  we  spouted 
forth  columns  of  white  steam  through  our  ice- 
hung  beards.     Trotting  up  the  road,  we  sought 
the  birds.     We  found  them  at  the  next  farm- 
house, perched  by  dozens  on  plum-trees,  maple 
saplings  by  the  road,  and  on  the  tips  of  a  row 
of  spruces  opposite  the  farmyard.     Some  were 
in  the  road,  others  in  the  dooryard  on  the  soiled 
snow  where  oxen  had   stood.     In   all,   over  a 
hundred  were  present.     As  we  drew  near,  they 
rose  and  flew  in  waving  circles  over  us,  every 
bird  singing  until  the  whole  air  seemed  tingling 
with  sound.     Then  they  came  down  in  undu- 
lating lines,  curves,  angles,  and  plunges,  which 
turned  aside  into  a  second  flight  in  the  sunlight. 
As  they  settled  in  groups  in  the  various  trees, 
I  swept  my  glass  over  one  cluster  after  another. 
Crossbills  were  the  most  numerous  species,  with 
goldfinches   a   close   second,    and  pine   finches 
third.      The  crossbills  were  in  all  stages  and 
conditions  of  plumage,  from  rich  red  males  blaz- 
ing like  dull  coals  plucked  from  the  fire,  to 


240     AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

dingy  brown.    No  white-winged  crossbills  seemed 
to  be  among  them.     Three  months  before,  on  a 
cold  dewy  morning  in  September,  I  stood  on 
this  spot  and  saw  a  flock  of  thirty  crossbills  in 
these  same  trees.    Then  a  number  of  them  were 
feeding  in  the  edge  of  the  pasture  at  a  place 
where  cattle  had  been  salted  in  a  shallow  trough. 
I  saw  the  birds  tearing  off  fibres  from  the  wood 
of  the  trough,  so  eager  were  they  to  get  the  salt 
which  the  wood  had  absorbed.     This  morning 
the  salt  trough  was  covered  with  snow,  save  one 
edge  which  protruded;  but  all  around   it  the 
crossbills  had   trodden  the  snow  into  a  path, 
showing  that  they  were  still  salt-hungry.     Act- 
ing upon  this  hint,  I  sprinkled  the  ground  with 
grain  and  rock  salt;  but  although  birds  were  in 
all  the  trees,  they  paid  no  heed  to  my  offerings. 
After  watching  the  crossbills  for  nearly  an 
hour  we  walked  westward.    The  birds  had  been 
more  restless  than  we.     Few  of  them  remained 
still  more  than  two  or  three  minutes  at  a  time. 
With  sharp  calls  the  crossbills  would  dash  off, 
followed  by  the  finches,  and  together,  or  in  scat- 
tered detachments,  they  would  wheel  from  one 
quarter  of  the  heavens  to  another,  perhaps  re- 
turning in  a  moment  to  the  same  perch,  perhaps 
vanishing  in  distance,  not  to  reappear  for  many 
minutes.     All  the  time  that  they  were  on  the 
wing  the  air  was  full  of  their  fragments  of  music. 


A  WINTRY  WILDERNESS.  241 

Our  way  led  for  a  mile  through  the  level 
fields  of  the  intervale.  Five  or  six  farmhouses 
or  wood-cutters'  huts  faced  the  straight  road. 
At  almost  every  house  a  few  birds  were  seen, 
probably  parts  of  the  main  flock.  We  also 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  large  flock  of  snow-bimt- 
ings  flying  helter-skelter  over  a  field  where  yel- 
low grasses  were  waving  above  the  snow.  At 
length  our  road  came  to  an  end  at  the  banks  of 
Swift  River  near  the  upper  end  of  the  intervale. 
The  river  was  shallow,  and  so  was  a  broad 
brook  flowing  into  it  at  this  point.  The  latter 
we  found  no  great  difficulty  in  crossing  dry- 
shod,  by  going  from  one  pile  of  stones  and  ice 
to  another.  Beyond  the  stream  we  entered  a 
bit  of  primeval  forest,  only  partly  destroyed  by 
lumbermen  of  an  earlier  generation,  who  seem 
to  have  been  less  grasping  than  their  successors. 
In  these  woods  we  heard  bird  voices,  and  recog- 
nized the  ^^quank,  quank^^  of  the  red -bellied 
nuthatch,  and  the  ''''  chick-a-dee-dee-dee"  of  the 
titmouse.  To  call  them  nearer  I  hooted  like 
an  owl,  and  soon  after,  sharp  alarm  whistles 
almost  exactly  like  those  of  a  robin  came  from 
some  unknown  birds  in  a  bunch  of  firs  at  a  dis- 
tance. Upon  hooting  again,  I  was  pleasantly 
surprised  to  get  a  reply  from  a  barred  owl.  A 
moment  or  so  later  we  heard  blue  jays  scolding 
him  not  far  away. 


242  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

After  strolling  through  these  woods  and  along 
the  edge  of  Sabba  Day  Brook  for  an  hour  we 
turned  towards  home,  treading  in  our  previous 
footprints  and  thus  avoiding  crashing  through 
the  brittle  crust  of  the  snow.  On  reaching  the 
spot  where  the  owl  had  hooted,  I  used  my 
metallic  bird  whistles  and  drew  a  crowd  of 
chickadees,  kinglets,  nuthatches,  and  blue  jays. 
Then  I  hooted,  the  jays  scolded  noisily,  and 
soon  the  owl  replied.  He  came  nearer  by  de- 
grees, I  hooting  occasionally,  he  frequently. 
Finally  he  alighted  in  a  tree  just  over  us,  but 
saw  us  at  once  and  flew  away.  I  continued 
hooting  and  he  replied  again,  and  came  back 
within  sight.  Whenever  he  moved,  the  jays 
pursued  him  scolding,  and  they  were  still  watch- 
ing him  when  we  resumed  our  march  towards 
home. 


CLIMBING   BEAR   MOUNTAIN  IN  THE 
SNOW. 

Monday^  December  21.  The  njoon  ate  up 
the  clouds  during  the  night,  and  at  dawn  the 
only  remnants  of  what  the  evening  before  had 
looked  like  a  storm  were  the  cloud-caps  upon 
Tripyramid  and  Kancamagus,  and  a  band  of 
mist  across  Church's  Pond  at  the  western  end 
of  the  intervale.  We  were  dressing  about 
seven  o'clock  when  our  host  came  to  our  door, 
saying,  "If  you  want  to  see  a  fox,  come 
quickly."  I  ran  into  the  east  room  and  caught 
a  last  glimpse  of  Reynard  trotting  briskly  over 
the  snow  towards  the  rising  sun.  He  seemed 
to  be  following  a  scent  which  went  in  a  some- 
what wavy  line  across  the  field.  At  eight 
o'clock,  just  as  we  were  striding  up  the  road  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  crossbills,  a  wild  cry  rang 
from  the  forest  and  echoed  from  end  to  end  of 
the  valley.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  timber-eater, 
coming  northward  by  his  tortuous  path  from 
Upper  Bartlett,  and  calling  for  his  day's  food. 
The  men  at  the  lumber  cars  near  our  house 
bustled  a  little,  and  then  started  down  the  track 


244    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

to  see  the  engine  come  in.  On  its  arrival  one 
heavily  laden  car  was  attached  to  it,  and  the 
train,  thus  made  up,  at  once  started  back. 
Meanwhile,  we  had  met  two  tree  sparrows  by 
the  roadside  and  seen  our  crossbills  and  gold- 
finches on  their  favorite  trees.  They  had,  ap- 
parently, eaten  none  of  the  cracked  corn  sprin- 
kled for  them  upon  the  snow.  As  the  train  was 
about  to  start,  we  boarded  the  engine  and  gained 
a  promise  from  the  engineer  to  let  us  out  at  the 
foot  of  Bear  Mountain.  Crossing  Swift  River, 
the  train  entered  the  spruce  forest  and  began 
its  winding  journey  towards  Upper  Bartlett. 
With  my  head  out  of  the  left-hand  window,  I 
absorbed  all  the  novelty  and  beauty  of  the 
scene.  Inside,  the  engineer  sat  at  his  window 
with  his  earnest  eyes  looking  up  the  track,  his 
strong  hand  upon  crank  or  lever,  and  his  face 
grave  and  quiet.  The  fireman  poured  oil  into 
the  sucking  cups  above  the  boiler;  then  he 
clanked  the  chain  of  the  furnace  door,  peeped 
into  the  raging  fire  within,  hurled  into  it  a 
shovelful  of  coal  dust,  rammed  it  home  with 
the  poker,  worked  the  movable  lever  which 
dumped  ashes,  and  again  poured  oil  into  the 
sucking,  choking  cups. 

Outside,  the  spruce  forest  hemmed  us  in,  but 
rising  above  it  headland  after  headland  of  black 
rocks,  snow-incrusted  ledges,  and  lofty  spruces 


CLIMBING  BEAR  MOUNTAIN  IN  THE  SNOW.    245 

came  into  view,  frowned  upon  us,  and  were  left 
behind.  A  flock  of  blue  jays  crossed  in  front 
of  the  engine,  a  red  squirrel  whisked  along  a 
log  by  the  track.  Now  the  rails  sloped  up  so 
that  the  engineer  increased  his  power,  then  the 
track  fell  away  so  that  all  power  was  cut  off. 
Trestle  after  trestle  was  crossed,  strange  piles 
of  bark-covered  logs  which  groaned  under  our 
weight  as  we  rolled  over  them. 

After  traveling  four  miles  to  get  ahead  less 
than  two,  the  engineer  stopped  for  us  to  begin 
our  climb  up  Bear  Mountain.  He  leaned  out  of 
his  window,  giving  us  advice  and  wishing  us  a 
fair  trip.  Then  he  applied  the  power,  and  the 
great  mass  moved  on  through  the  notch  towards 
Upper  Bartlett.  This  short  piece  of  rough  road 
is  operated  solely  to  carry  out  lumber  and  logs ; 
but  if  people  wish  to  ride,  they  are  taken  with- 
out charge.  It  is  said  that  if  the  road  refused 
to  take  them  they  could  compel  it  to  run  pas- 
senger trains. 

The  point  at  which  the  kindly  engineer  had 
stopped  to  leave  us  was  the  lower  end  of  a  series 
of  lumber  roads  leading  to  the  upper  slopes  of 
Bear  Mountain.  The  mountain,  once  covered 
with  an  immense  spruce  forest,  has  now  been 
stripped  of  the  greater  part  of  its  valuable  tim- 
ber. Beginning  at  the  main  road  in  which  we 
stood,  dozens  of  minor  roads  held  the  mountain 


246  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

in  their  embrace.  They  reminded  me  of  the 
tentacles  of  an  enormous  devil-fish.  Near  the 
focus  of  all  these  roads  we  found  a  log  cabin 
and  stables.  The  cabin  was  one  of  the  best  I 
have  ever  seen.  It  was  about  sixty  feet  long, 
and  contained  a  room  at  each  end  and  roofed 
space  in  the  middle  open  at  front  and  back. 
Near  the  house  we  heard  bird  voices,  and  I  at 
once  used  my  Spanish  whistles.  The  effect  was 
excellent.  Four  or  five  red-bellied  nuthatches, 
one  white-bellied,  and  a  small  flock  of  pine 
finches  responded.  The  siskins  were  very  noisy 
and  quite  restless.  They  were  feeding  on  the 
seeds  and  buds  of  a  tall  birch.  Leaving  the 
hut  at  nine  o'clock,  we  strolled  up  the  snow- 
covered  roads.  The  voices  of  birds  were  ever 
in  our  ears.  Squirrel  and  rabbit  tracks,  with 
now  and  then  the  tracks  of  a  fox,  followed  or  cut 
the  roads.  The  snow  was  five  or  six  inches  in 
depth  and  covered  by  a  thin  and  brittle  crust. 
In  many  places  numbers  of  well-filled  beechnuts 
were  strewn  upon  the  ground.  This  is  beech- 
nut year,  and  the  squirrels  have  more  than  they 
can  pick  up.  The  snow  in  the  road  was  easy 
to  walk  upon,  the  air  was  mild,  the  sun  warm, 
the  spruces  rich  with  olive  light  and  brilliantly 
contrasted  with  the  deep  blue  sky  against  which 
our  mountain  towered.  On  each  side  of  the 
narrow  way   "top  wood"   and  branches  were 


CLIMBING  BEAR  MOUNTAIN  IN  THE  SNOW.    247 

piled  in  ramparts.  The  many  roads  reaching 
up  the  mountain  are  in  places  set  so  closely  to- 
gether that  their  ramparts  of  top  wood  touch 
each  other,  forming  almost  impassable  barriers. 
It  was  in  one  of  these  tangles  that  I  discov- 
ered two  small  woodpeckers  at  work  tapping 
upon  the  trunks  of  two  unhealthy  spruces 
spared  by  the  axe.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the 
birds  were  unfamiliar  in  coloring,  and  I  crawled 
in  among  the  top  wood  to  examine  them  more 
closely.  To  whistles,  hooting,  and  squeaks  they 
paid  no  attention,  but  kept  on  hammering  the 
trees  until  small  flakes  of  loose  bark  flew  at 
every  blow.  My  crashing  through  snow  and 
branches  startled  one  bird,  but  the  other  stood 
his  groimd  until  I  got  within  about  fifteen  feet 
of  him.  My  glass  brought  out  every  detail  of 
his  plumage.  Upon  his  head  was  a  yeUow  cap, 
his  throat  was  snowy  white,  his  sides  were 
finely,  delicately  barred  with  black  and  white, 
his  back  was  largely  black,  but  down  his  spine 
ran  a  belt  of  black  and  white  cross-lining.  In- 
stead of  having  four  toes  like  the  downy  and 
other  common  woodpeckers,  this  stranger  from 
the  north  had  but  three  toes.  He  was  the  lad- 
der-backed woodpecker  of  the  great  northern 
forests.  During  the  twenty  minutes  that  I 
watched  him  he  made  no  vocal  sound,  but 
worked   incessantly,   tearing  away   bark,   and 


248  AT  THE  NORTE   OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

drilling  into  the  trunk  of  the  spruce.  When 
he  had  inspected  the  tree  to  its  highest  part  he 
flew  several  rods  to  rejoin  his  mate. 

At  last  the  roads  ended  and  we  entered  the 
remnant  of  dark  forest  which  crowns  the  moun- 
tain. There  was  a  chill  in  the  gloomy  shades. 
The  snow  was  softer  and  deeper  here.  It  cov- 
ered innmnerable  boulders  closely  wedged  to- 
gether between  the  stems  of  the  spruces.  On 
the  sides  of  these  rocks  we  could  see  delicate 
mosses  imprisoned  in  the  ice  and  snow.  At 
frequent  intervals  we  encountered  masses  of 
fallen  timber  wrecked  by  hurricanes.  Another 
obstacle  to  our  ascent  was  the  dense  growth  of 
young  spruces  which  in  places  made  walking 
almost  impossible.  In  the  edge  of  an  open 
space  in  this  forest  we  called  together  the  birds 
by  means  of  my  whistle.  A  flock  of  j uncos 
appeared  in  a  pile  of  top  wood ;  red-bellied  nut- 
hatches came  and  clung  head  downwards  on  the 
nearest  trunks  and  quanhed  at  us,  kinglets  bus- 
tled in,  peeped  at  us,  and  bustled  out,  a  dozen 
or  more  red  crossbills  alighted  close  above  us 
and  to  our  satisfaction  made  the  note  which 
had  so  puzzled  us  yesterday  and  which  sounds 
like  the  robin's  alarm-note.  Best  of  all,  a  flock 
of  sixty  pine  siskins  came  into  the  nearest  trees, 
and  one  or  two  of  them  came  down  to  the  level 
of  our  heads  and   questioned   us  plaintively. 


CLIMBING  BEAR  MOUNTAIN  IN  THE  SNOW.    249 

The  body  of  sweet  sound  made  in  a  conversa- 
tional way  by  these  gentle,  cheerful  little  birds, 
was  amazing. 

We  reached  the  summit  at  about  noon,  and 
were  fully  repaid  for  the  three  hours'  climb. 
During  the  ascent,  charming  views  of  Passacon- 
away,  Tripyramid,  Kancamagus,  and  the  daz- 
zlingly  white  fields  of  the  intervale  had  greeted 
us  whenever  we  stopped  to  rest.  Now  were 
added  Chocorua,  Moat,  Pequawket,  Mount 
Washington  and  his  supporting  mountains,  the 
Franconia  group,  Carrigain,  and  the  Bartlett 
valley.  Moat  and  Chocorua  are  much  alike 
from  this  point  of  view.  They  are  both  com- 
paratively treeless  mountains  and  were  conse- 
quently snowy  white.  Their  outlines  suggest 
combing  breakers.  Chocorua,  being  under  the 
low-hanging  sun,  was  reflecting  light  from 
every  crusted  snowbank  and  ice-wrapped 
boulder.  It  was  like  a  mountain  of  cut  glass. 
Mount  Washington  was  unobscured,  and  in  the 
noonday  sun  as  colorless  as  summer  clouds. 
This  snowy  whiteness  of  its  upper  mass  wound 
in  streams  down  its  sides,  as  soft  frosting  pours 
in  grooves  down  the  sides  of  a  birthday  cake. 
Between  these  streams  of  whiteness  ran  upward 
long  fingers  of  dark  forest.  Most  of  the  other 
mountains  in  sight  were  wooded  to  their  sum- 
mits, and  so  contrasted  sharply  in  their  sombre 
colorings  with  their  snowy  rivals. 


250  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

The  narrow  ridge  which  forms  the  top  of 
Bear  Mountain  is  blockaded  by  fallen  timber. 
Squirming  through  the  tangle,  we  saw  all  the 
views  and  then  sat  down  in  the  sun  on  piles  of 
spruce  branches  and  ate  our  lunch.  Having  no 
water,  we  quenched  our  thirst  by  mingling  snow 
with  our  bread  and  eating  them  together.  As 
we  ate  and  rested,  looking  across  a  wooded 
valley  toward  Carrigain  and  the  Franconias,  a 
flock  of  white-winged  crossbills  alighted  above 
our  heads  and  talked  to  us.  Several  were  rosy 
males  in  the  perfection  of  plumage.  Many 
more  siskins  came  and  went,  and  so  did  a  flock 
of  four  red  nuthatches  and  several  kinglets. 

Our  descent  was  rapid  and  amusing.  We 
plunged  downward  from  tree  to  tree  with  long 
strides  and  slides,  sometimes  falling,  often 
coasting  faster  and  farther  than  we  wished. 
Three  more  flocks  of  crossbills,  many  dozens  of 
siskins,  and  a  scattering  of  nuthatches  glad- 
dened us  as  we  pushed  down  the  slopes.  A 
hawk,  too,  came  quitp  near  to  us,  soaring  at 
last  so  as  to  clear  the  mountain's  crest.  He 
was  rather  small,  and  very  quick  and  jerky  in 
his  wing  motions.  He  circled  from  left  to  right 
in  small  curves. 

While  walking  home  on  the  railway  we  were 
fortunate  enough  to  call  to  us  a  small  flock  of 
pine  grosbeaks,  five  or  six  only,  and  having  no 


CLIMBING  BEAR  MOUNTAIN  IN  THE  SNOW.    251 

red  birds  in  their  number  so  far  as  I  could  see. 
Red  squirrels  were  ubiquitous.  I  think  we 
saw,  or  heard  the  chattering  of,  at  least  twenty 
during  the  day.  I  have  been  told  so  often  that 
chipmunks  keep  closely  housed  in  winter  that 
when  one  squealed  at  me  from  his  hole  near  the 
track  I  did  not  trust  either  my  own  ears  or 
those  of  my  friend.  Seeing  is  believing,  how- 
ever, and  a  dozen  or  two  rods  farther  on  another 
chipmunk  stayed  on  his  log  long  enough  for  us 
to  count  his  stripes  and  wish  him  a  merry 
Christmas. 

We  reached  home  at  about  half  past  four, 
just  as  the  western  sky  was  fiUed  with  rosy 
light  by  a  sun  already  set.  Venus,  close  to  the 
dark  rim  of  Passaconaway,  and  Jupiter,  in  the 
higher  sky,  summoned  the  stars  to  their  posts, 
and  encouraged  us  to  beg  for  supper. 


m  THE  PAUGUS  WOODS. 

Just  opposite  our  house,  which  stood  on  the 
north  side  of  the  road,  facing  south  towards 
Paugus,  was  a  black  forest  of  spruces.  Into 
this  we  plunged  on  Tuesday  morning,  not 
knowing  what  might  lie  within.  The  silence  of 
the  gloom  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  falling 
bits  of  ice  and  drops  of  melting  snow.  Bird 
notes,  too,  could  be  heard,  and  now  and  then 
a  red  squirrel  chattered.  The  trunks  of  the 
trees  stood  closely  together,  and  thousands  of 
small  dead  branches  radiated  from  the  trunka 
and  interlaced,  opposing  our  progress.  The 
crashing  of  these  twigs  as  we  broke  through 
them,  accompanied  by  the  crunching  of  th<* 
snow-crust  under  our  feet,  noisily  annoimced 
our  coming.  At  intervals  we  found  masses  of 
fallen  timber,  the  wreck  of  fierce  storms,  and 
brooks  covered  with  thin  ice  and  misleading 
snow,  through  which  we  slumped  into  cold  water 
beneath.  Every  few  paces  rabbit  tracks  dotted 
the  soft  film  of  snow  which  lay  upon  the  crust. 
If  the  tracks  which  we  crossed  during  our  three 
or  four  mile  walk  could  have  been  measured  in 


IN  TEE  P AUG  US  WOODS.  253 

all  their  meanderings,  I  think  the  aggregate  of 
miles  traversed  by  the  rabbits  of  that  locality- 
would  have  been  found  to  rival  the  railway 
mileage  of  New  Hampshire.  From  time  to 
time  we  stopped  to  call  birds  to  us  by  the  aid 
of  my  whistles.  I  think  I  called  eight  or  nine 
times,  and  in  each  instance  birds  appeared 
promptly.  Usually  pine  finches  came  first, 
whirling  through  the  upper  air  like  burnt  paper 
driven  by  the  wind.  As  they  passed  over  us, 
they  would  catch  the  sound  of  the  whistles  more 
distinctly  and  begin  a  series  of  undulatory  cir- 
cles. Then  one  or  two  would  drop  straight 
down  into  a  leafless  tree,  or  upon  the  tips  of 
the  spruces,  and  the  rest  would  follow  them, 
sometimes  twenty  going  into  one  tree.  Their 
sweet  queryings  filled  the  air,  and  drew  other 
birds  to  the  focus  of  sound,  among  others  a 
number  of  purple  finches  and  a  white  -  bellied 
nuthatch.  Kinglets  came  very  near  to  us  when 
we  were  well  hidden ;  so  near  that  the  brilliant 
color  on  their  dainty  heads  could  be  seen  with 
perfect  distinctness.  There  were  more  chicka- 
dees in  these  woods  than  in  the  other  places  we 
had  visited,  and  I  examined  them  all  with  great 
care,  hoping  to  find  a  Hudson  Bay  titmouse. 
Two  flocks  of  the  common  species  came,  and 
produced  no  northern  birds,  but  at  a  third  rally 
of  nuthatches,  finches,  and  kinglets,  a  strange 


264  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

voice  made  itself  heard.  I  knew  it  for  some- 
thing different  from  a  chickadee  at  once,  and 
yet  it  was  titmouse  language.  Squeaking  vig- 
orously, I  called  the  stranger  down  to  me.  At 
first  I  thought  it  was  a  chickadee ;  then  he  sput- 
tered out  his  ''''dee-dee  "  and  showed  his  brownish 
head  and  great  chestnut  patch  on  his  flank,  and 
I  knew  he  was  from  Hudson  Bay.  Three  others 
Joined  him  and  gave  me  ample  chance  to  inspect 
their  points.  I  had  the  feeling  that  they  had 
less  character  and  spirit  than  our  blackcap  tit- 
mouse. Their  voices  were  weaker  and  more 
petulant  and  their  general  appearance  less  posi- 
tive and  aggressive. 

Once  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  big  white  hare 
bounding  away  from  us  through  a  jungle  of 
young  spruces.  He  was  so  nearly  the  color  of 
the  snow  that  my  eyes  found  it  difficult  to  follow 
him. 

After  going  rather  more  than  two  miles 
through  the  spruce  tangle,  we  entered  an  old 
logging  road  much  used  by  rabbits,  foxes,  and 
grouse,  and,  following  it  northward,  we  made 
our  way  home. 

About  3.30  p.  M.  the  baying  of  a  hound  at- 
tracted our  notice,  and  I  walked  up  the  road  to 
see  what  he  was  doing.  He  soon  appeared  at 
the  edge  of  the  spruce  woods,  and  I  followed 
him  into  their  dark  shades.     After  a  moment's 


IN  THE  PAUGUS  WOODS.  255 

hesitation  he  took  the  back  track  and  was  soon 
almost  out  of  earshot  on  a  hot  scent.  Not  long 
after,  my  friend  left  the  house  and,  crossing 
Swift  River  by  the  railway  bridge,  followed  the 
rails  northward  through  the  forest.  Soon  he 
heard  the  hound  baying  to  the  eastward,  down 
river.  Then  a  snapping  of  branches  and  crunch- 
ing of  crust  came  to  his  ears,  and  a  moment 
later  a  deer  broke  through  the  bushes,  dashed 
up  the  embankment,  and,  turning  at  right  an- 
gles, came  in  weary  leaps  towards  him.  My 
friend  stood  perfectly  still,  too  much  astonished 
to  move.  The  deer  came  to  within  twelve  paces 
of  him,  then  saw  him,  and  with  a  bound  left 
the  track  and  plunged  into  the  woods  on  the 
western  side.  A  few  moments  later  the  hunters 
came  up  and  my  friend  demanded  what  they 
were  doing,  and  whether  the  hound  was  their 
dog,  in  so  severe  a  tone  that  the  poachers  de- 
nied their  interest  in  the  dog  and  made  off  into 
the  woods.  Meanwhile,  I  wandered  southward 
through  the  spruces,  now  hearing  the  hound, 
now  losing  his  melancholy  baying.  No  small 
birds  were  to  be  seen  or  heard.  They  had  van- 
ished to  their  night  abiding -places.  Two  grouse 
rose  noisily  and  went  into  the  tops  of  the  trees. 
Red  squirrels  continued  to  bustle  about  until 
after  dusk.  As  light  faded  in  the  sky,  the  for- 
est grew  very  dark,  and  fallen  trees,  stumps, 


266    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

and  bushes  rearranged  themselves  into  weird 
shapes  which  seemed  to  move  against  the  vague 
background  of  the  snow.  The  silence  of  the 
cold  black  and  white  woods  became  oppressive, 
and  the  chill  of  night  increased  moment  by  mo- 
ment. The  baying  of  the  hound,  lost  to  the 
eastward,  had  come  again  from  the  north,  and 
finally  moved  over  towards  the  west.  It  was 
after  five  o'clock,  and  the  dog  had  followed  his 
chase  since  eleven.  Standing  still,  listening  to 
the  hound,  and  peering  into  the  trees  in  search 
of  the  grouse,  I  began  to  grow  drowsy,  and  to 
long  to  sink  down  upon  the  soft  snow  and  go  to 
sleep.  It  required  a  strong  effort  of  will  to 
rouse  myself  and  to  start  my  benumbed  feet 
upon  their  homeward  way.  As  soon  as  I  moved, 
the  grouse,  which  had  been  budding  in  a  high 
maple,  flew  away  deeper  into  the  gloom,  and 
then  utter  silence  settled  down  upon  the  deserted 
forest. 

When  we  awoke,  December  24,  the  day  prom- 
ised to  be  fine.  Blue  sky  covered  the  area  above 
Carrigain,  and  a  cool  west  wind  swept  across 
the  fields  from  which  much  of  the  snow  had 
disappeared.  We  had  planned  to  climb  another 
of  the  mountains  near  the  railway  track,  but 
while  we  were  breakfasting,  the  engine  came  in, 
and,  finding  no  cars  loaded,  went  out  again  at 
once.    By  nine  o'clock  clouds  had  gathered  and 


'  IN  THE  PAVGUS  WOODS.  267 

caps  had  settled  down  upon  many  of  the  peaks. 
We  heard  crossbills  calling  as  we  left  the  house. 
Their  short,  sharp  call  is  much  like  the  English 
sparrow's  alarm-note.  A  flock  of  nine  settled 
on  the  spruces  by  the  salting-trough  as  we  went 
past.  One  was  a  red  bird,  two  had  a  trace  of 
red,  five  were  brown,  with  some  streaking  on 
the  sides  of  the  breast,  and  one  was  quite  yel- 
low. One  of  them  was  gnawing  a  long  shoot  of 
spruce  which  had  already  been  chewed  free  of 
needles  and  left  brown  and  forlorn.  Unfortu- 
nately we  took  a  dog  with  us,  a  black  mongrel 
with  pleading  eyes  and  no  wisdom.  He  loved 
to  zigzag  over  the  country  in  front  of  us,  and 
to  bark  at  red  squirrels.  He  was  a  nuisance, 
but  very  sweet-tempered,  as  many  fools  are. 
We  took  him,  hoping  that  he  might  hunt  rab- 
bits, but  we  wished  him  in  Jericho  long  before 
the  forenoon  was  over. 

Although  cloudy  all  day,  no  rain  fell  until 
evening ;  consequently  birds  were  astir  and  abun- 
dant. We  left  the  highway  at  a  point  where 
an  old  logging  road  led  southward  through  the 
spruce  swamp,  parallel  to  a  stream  bearing  the 
odd  name  of  Oliverian  Brook.  Continued  far 
enough  over  ledges  and  through  "harricanes,'* 
the  road  would  pass  between  Paugus  and  Passa- 
conaway  and  come  out  into  the  Birch  Intervale, 
Tamworth.      After  going   in  for  a  couple  of 


258    AT  TEE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

miles  the  road  bends  to  the  left,  following  the 
east  branch  of  the  Oliverian  Brook  up  to  the 
spruce  forests  on  Paugus. 

We  made  our  first  halt  in  a  dense  spruce  and 
hemlock  thicket  and  called  for  birds.  They 
came  from  all  quarters  until  dozens  of  the  usual 
kinds  were  aroimd  us.  After  a  while  seven  or 
eight  blue  jays  flitted  past,  one  by  one,  at- 
tracted mainly  by  my  hooting.  They  came 
within  easy  gunshot  and  peered  at  us  with  sus- 
picion and  anger  in  their  wicked  eyes.  They 
are  villains  in  spite  of  their  attractive  dress. 
Suddenly  they  flew  with  cries  of  alarm,  and  I 
saw  a  large  light-colored  hawk  sweep  past  and 
alight  in  a  tall  dead  tree  just  out  of  range. 
The  dog  at  this  crisis  made  his  appearance  and 
rushed  back  and  forth  with  ill-timed  energy. 
The  hawk  flew  a  little  farther  away  and  was 
on  his  guard  against  stalking.  The  jays  also 
vanished,  and  soon  the  smaller  birds  left  also. 
Among  the  latter  was  one  Hudson  Bay  tit- 
mouse. 

In  the  depths  of  the  spruce  swamp  the  snow 
had  not  wasted  much,  and  it  was  soft  enough  to 
take  the  imprint  of  passing  feet.  We  found 
the  tracks  of  a  deer,  a  mink,  and  a  ,'coon. 
Foxes,  rabbits,  squirrels,  mice,  and  grouse  had 
been  that  way  also.  Several  times,  in  crossing 
fresh  fox  tracks,  I  got  a  whiff  of  odor  which  I 


IN  THE  PAUGU8  WOODS.  259 

fancied  might  be  that  of  the  fox.  It  suggested 
the  smell  of  hamamelis.  The  swamp  trees  were 
draped  with  gray  moss,  one  of  the  most  striking 
of  nature's  decorations  in  this  latitude.  Many 
of  the  trees  were  thickly  grown  with  green 
lichens,  which,  being  wet,  were  two  or  three 
times  as  bright  in  coloring  as  when  dry.  In 
spots  where  the  snow  had  melted,  showing 
patches  of  the  swamp  floor,  mayflower,  checker- 
berry,  ranunculus,  partridge-berry,  ferns,  and 
other  leaves  showed  their  vivid  coloring,  or 
were  replaced  in  very  damp  ground  by  sphag- 
num. 

As  we  neared  the  slopes  of  Paugus  the  trees 
became  larger  and  the  forest  clear  of  under- 
growth. Our  road  —  a  very  old  one  —  was 
most  clearly  marked  by  being  densely  grown 
with  weeds,  and  an  inferior  crop  of  trees  and 
bushes.  As  compared  with  the  clear  forest, 
the  road  was  a  ribbon -like  jungle.  Its  young 
growth  was  composed  of  viburnums,  slender 
maples,  and  cherry  -  trees.  Spots  where  the 
cattle  had  been  fed  could  be  picked  out  by 
means  of  the  asters,  clover,  and  other  flowers 
and  weeds  which  had  sprung  up  from  the  seeds 
sown  by  the  fodder. 

In  the  edge  of  the  high  growth  we  halted  a 
second  time,  and  called  the  birds  together. 
They  failed   not  to   respond,  and   when  their 


260  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER, 

chattering  was  at  its  height  the  familiar  ^''who' 
hoo^  hoo-hoo,  who-hoo-hoo-hooo  "  of  a  barred 
owl  was  heard.  The  birds  became  silent  and 
most  of  them  disappeared,  perhaps  to  scold  the 
real  owl.  Many  of  the  trees  in  this  belt  of 
forest  were  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in  height. 

Well  up  towards  the  high  ridges  of  Paugus 
our  road  crossed  the  Oliverian  Brook.  The 
point  chosen  twenty  years  ago  by  the  lumber- 
man -  engineer  for  building  his  bridge  was  a 
ravine  of  singularly  picturesque  character. 
Thirty  feet  below  its  two  precipitous  banks  the 
noisy  torrent  struggled  among  its  boulders. 
Dozens  of  dark  spruces  overhung  it,  and  rank 
upon  rank  of  evergreens  lined  the  banks.  In 
the  bed  of  the  brook  the  lumbermen  had  built 
up  in  "cob-house"  fashion  two  log  abutments 
about  twenty -five  feet  high.  From  each  bank 
immense  logs  were  run  out  to  rest  upon  the 
abutments,  and  similar  logs  formed  the  central 
span.  Then  scores  of  shorter  logs  were  laid 
across  from  girder  to  girder,  and  all  were  firmly 
bound  together  by  heavy  side-logs  laid  on  top 
of  and  parallel  to  the  girders.  We  decided  to 
cross  this  bridge,  although  it  was  falling  to 
pieces.  Many  of  the  short  logs  had  rotted  ojff 
and  fallen  through.  We  walked  upon  the  gir- 
ders, the  whole  bridge  trembling  ominously 
under  our  tread.     Our  dog,  foolish  a^he  was, 


IN  THE  PAVGUS  WOODS.  261 

knew  enough  not  to  cross  this  bridge,  for  after 
inspecting  it  he  whined,  ran  down  the  bank, 
plunged  through  the  stream,  and  clambered  up 
the  other  side. 

At  half  past  two  we  had  reached  rather  high 
land.  The  road  was  fast  climbing  the  flank  of 
Paugus,  following  a  minor  branch  of  the  Oli- 
verian  Brook.  Just  across  this  little  run  rose 
the  gloomiest  grove  of  spruces  we  had  seen.  It 
stood  upon  a  bank  fifty  feet  above  the  road  and 
brook.  I  clambered  up  to  it,  and  forced  my 
way  through  its  dense  tangle.  To  my  surprise 
I  found  that  it  was  only  about  thirty  feet  wide, 
growing  on  a  mere  tongue  of  land  between  two 
mountain  gorges.  On  the  farther  side  the  land 
fell  off  abruptly  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  and 
down  in  the  shades  below  still  another  branch 
of  the  Oliverian  fretted  in  its  bed.  Beyond  it 
was  another  ridge,  over  which,  a  mile  and  more 
away,  grim  Passaconaway  frowned  across  at 
me.  A  white  cloud-banner  streamed  from  his 
spruce -crowned  head.  To  the  serious  detriment 
of  my  clothes  I  climbed  a  tall  spruce  on  the 
edge  of  the  ravine  in  order  to  determine  our 
position.  Behind  us  was  Paugus,  its  summits 
within  comparatively  easy  reach.  From  them 
I  could  have  looked  down  at  my  snow-covered 
home  by  Chocorua  lakes.  Westward,  just 
across  the  forest  basin  on  whose  edge  we  stood. 


262  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

was  Passaconaway.  Northward  the  eye  wan- 
dered downward  over  gently  sloping  tree -tops 
to  the  broad  snowy  intervale  with  its  cozy  farms 
and  its  one  long,  straight  road,  running  from 
west  to  east,  from  the  forests  by  Sabba  Day 
Brook,  down  Swift  River,  through  its  gorges 
towards  Conway.  Above  and  beyond  the  inter- 
vale were  the  northern  mountains  which  lock 
it  in  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  —  Bear  Moun- 
tain on  the  right,  then  Owl's  Head,  Carrigain, 
Green's  Cliffs,  Sugar  Hill,  and  Kancamagus. 
The  notch  east  of  Carrigain  is  one  of  the  grand- 
est rifts  in  the  White  Mountain  panorama.  It 
is  like  a  black  gateway  opened  for  storms  and 
wailing  winds  to  sweep  through. 

The  black  grove  on  its  narrow  tongue  of 
land  hanging  between  two  gorges  was  alive  with 
birds,  and  I  fancied  it  to  be  their  sleeping-place. 
Chickadees,  kinglets,  and  a  brown  creeper  were 
in  possession  and  resented  my  intrusion.  It 
was  just  such  a  place  as  I  have  always  imagined 
a  small  bird's  dormitory  to  be. 

We  returned,  descending  by  another  logging 
road  leading  due  north  to  the  intervale  road 
about  a  mile  below  the  Carrigain  House.  This 
logging  road  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  I 
have  ever  seen.  It  follows  closely  a  brook  of 
considerable  size  wh,ich  is  one  long  series  of 
pools,  falls,  and  dashing  rapids.     The  forest  on 


FROST-COVERED   SPRUCE   NEAR  THE   SUMMIT  OF 
PASSACONAWAY 


IN  THE  P AUG  US  WOODS.  263 

both  sides  of  the  brook  bed  is  of  high  growth 
and  generous  proportions.  Every  few  moments 
a  vista  view  of  Bear  Mountain  charmed  us  as 
we  wound  down  the  steep  incline,  while  behind 
and  above  us  the  ledges  of  Paugus,  gleaming 
with  ice  and  capped  by  snow,  showed  at  inter- 
vals through  the  trees. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OP  PASSACONAWAY. 

Wednesday,  December  23,  dawned  under  a 
damp  sky.  Tripyramid  kept  on  his  nightcap, 
and  patches  of  mist  clung  to  the  dark  precipice 
of  Passaconaway.  The  mountains  looked 
higher  and  more  threatening  than  on  previous 
days,  and  they  seemed  closer  to  us  than  when 
the  sun  shone.  A  whisper  of  falling  drops  and 
settling  snow  ruffled  the  morning  calm.  Nev- 
ertheless, patches  of  blue  sky  showed  in  the 
west,  and  once  or  twice  a  silvery  spot  in  the 
clouds  suggested  the  sun's  burning  through. 
We  went  first  to  see  our  favorite  flock  of  birds 
at  the  cattle-trough  in  the  pasture.  They  were 
there  in  full  force,  nearly  if  not  quite  a  hundred 
strong.  They  allowed  me  to  come  within  about 
twenty  feet  of  them,  and  to  watch  them  nar- 
rowly through  my  glass.  Rather  more  than 
half  were  red  crossbills.  Of  the  remainder, 
two  thirds  were  pine  finches,  and  one  third  gold- 
finches. No  red-polls  were  to  be  seen.  The 
coloring  in  the  crossbills  was  amazingly  diverse. 
There  were  very  brilliant  males  with  cinnabar 
tints  wherever  such  color  is  ever  found.     From 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  PASSACONAWAY.        265 

this  maximum  of  intensity  their  coloring  graded 
downward  through  partial  red  markings  on  the 
one  hand,  and  through  gradually  fading  red 
markings  on  the  other.  I  saw  one  bird  with 
red  on  his  rump  only.  The  fading  from  red  to 
yellow  yielded  many  gradations  of  red  and  yel- 
low or  orange  down  to  pure  gold.  The  brown 
birds  were  the  more  numerous,  and  they  seemed 
to  have  various  combinations  of  light  and  dark, 
with  now  and  then  suggestions  of  bright  tints. 
In  some  individuals  the  mandibles  crossed  in 
one  way,  and  in  others  the  opposite  way.  In 
size  the  crossbills  varied  widely.  Often,  in 
glancing  quickly  at  a  group,  I  mistook  the 
smaller,  duller  birds  for  pine  finches.  A  dozen 
times  in  as  many  minutes  the  flock  whirled  up- 
wards and  round  and  round,  showering  the  air 
with  their  delicious  medley  music.  Generally 
from  three  to  six  old  birds  remained  in  one  of 
the  two  spruces  near  the  fence  by  the  trough, 
and  a  sharp  call  from  them  brought  the  flock 
down  again  like  a  fall  of  hail. 

When  we  had  walked  a  mile  up  the  valley  a 
shower  struck  us,  and  we  waited  a  few  moments 
under  the  shelter  of  an  old  house  from  which 
the  wall  boards  had  been  removed.  We  heard 
sweet  bird  notes,  but  could  not  locate  the  sing- 
ers. When  we  turned  to  go,  however,  a  flock 
of  sixteen  snow-buntings  rose  from  a  field  where 


266  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP   WATER. 

they  had  been  feeding  in  the  yellow  grasses, 
and  vibrated  away  with  merry  calls  until  swal- 
lowed up  in  fog  and  rain. 

The  wasting  of  the  snow  under  the  hot  sun 
of  Monday  and  the  cloudy  sky  but  mild  air  of 
Tuesday  had  left  many  plants  and  dried  flower- 
stalks  exposed  to  view.  Plum-colored  masses 
of  berry  bushes  encroached  upon  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  snow  as  headlands  reach  out  into  a 
calm  sea.  Tiny  forests  of  wiry  grass  reared 
their  heads  above  the  snow.  In  color  they  were 
what  is  called  "sandy."  Goldenrod  and  aster 
stems,  holding  aloft  dry  and  brittle  suggestions 
of  long-lost  flowers ;  the  heads  of  brunella,  look- 
ing like  chess  castles,  and  of  the  Indian  pipe, 
upright  and  pineapple-shaped;  and  many  deli- 
cate hairlike  stems  from  which  all  trace  of  leaf 
and  flower  had  departed,  broke  the  evenness  of 
the  snow  fields,  and  were  beautifid  in  an  imas- 
suming,  unconscious,  unintentional  way.  In- 
deed, many  of  them  had  never  shone  with 
beauty  before.  In  summer,  submerged  in  the 
wilderness  of  green  things  which  crowd  the 
unplowed  intervale,  they  could  not  have  been 
found  by  the  eye  of  any  one  in  chance  passing. 
But  in  winter,  the  time  of  their  nominal  beauty 
gone,  they  lingered  in  their  old  age,  and  looked 
more  beautiful  in  their  bleached  simplicity  than 
those  summer  flowers  which  never  gave  them  a 
chance  to  reveal  what  was  in  them. 


AT  THE   FOOT  OF  PASSACONAWAT.       2G7 

At  the  end  of  the  intervale,  instead  of  plung- 
ing into  the  woods  where  our  barred  owl  lived, 
we  turned  southward  towards  the  foot  of  Passa- 
conaway.     The  rough  road  led  through  the  for- 
est to  a  saw-mill  under  the  shoulder  of  the  first 
ridge  of  the   mountains.     Downes  Brook  had 
been  partially  dammed  to  form  a  pond,  upon 
which  hundreds  of  logs  lay  awaiting  their  fate. 
At  the  foot  of  the   dam  stood  the  mill.     Its 
lower  story  was  an  engine-room.     A  steam-en- 
gine of  considerable  power  worked  four  saws,  a 
planer,  and  an  endless  chain  used  to  draw  in 
logs  from  the  ice.     At  the  dam  end  these  logs 
were  being  drawn  in  upon  the  floor,  measured, 
and  marked.     Then  they  went  to  the  first  and 
largest  saw,  which  cut  off  their  slabs,  reduced 
them  to  boards  or  planks,  and  sent  them  along 
to  the  second  saw  to  have  their  ends  squared. 
From  the  second  saw  they  went  to  the  third, 
where  their  sides  were  made  equal,  and  hence 
through  the  planer,  out  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
mill,  down  a  chute  to  a  platform   where  they 
were  piled,    ready  to   be   hauled   away.     The 
fourth  saw  was  used  to  cut  the  slabs  and  edge- 
cuttings  into  the  right  lengths  for  fuel;  for  not 
only  the  engine  demon  in  the  under  story  fed 
on  wood,  but   all  the   people  in  the  intervale 
burned   slabs.     About  twelve   men  were    em- 
ployed  in   the   upper   part   of  the  mill,  some 


268  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

Americans,  some  French  Canadians,  and  some 
Irishmen.  One  young  Frenchman  was  a  pic- 
ture of  dirty  beauty  and  health.  His  jet-black 
hair,  reeking  with  oil,  was  plastered  in  a  curve 
over  his  forehead.  His  mustache  was  curling, 
and  his  snapping  eyes,  dark  skin,  rosy  cheeks, 
and  powerfid  but  rather  gross  body  made  a 
striking  picture  for  a  day  laborer. 

Leaving  the  mill  with  its  distracting  noise, 
we  ascended  the  main  logging  road  towards 
Passaconaway.  It  follows  Downes  Brook  south- 
ward, now  clinging  to  one  hillside,  then  cross- 
ing the  ice-bound  torrent  by  a  rude  but  massive 
bridge  of  spruce  logs  to  stay  for  a  while  on  the 
opposite  bank.  On  each  side  the  timber  had 
been  cut  and  hauled  away.  The  survival  of  the 
unfittest  is  the  rule  in  the  forest  after  the  lum- 
ber thief  has  been  through  it.  He  leaves  the 
crooked,  the  feeble,  and  the  diseased  trees,  and 
packs  around  their  roots  the  fertilizing  branches 
and  tops  of  the  logs  which  he  hauls  away.  On 
our  way  up  we  met  several  teams  coming  down 
the  slippery,  sloppy  road.  Two  strong  Cana- 
dian horses,  low  sleds,  three  great  logs  chained 
together  and  to  the  sleds,  and  an  oily,  tobacco- 
chewing  French  Canadian  made  up  a  team. 
We  stopped  and  talked  to  one  driver,  who  said 
that  if  the  snow  went  off  they  would  keep  on 
with  their  hauling,  using  the  runners   on  the 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  PASSACONAWAY.       269 

bare  ground.  While  he  chatted  with  us  he  fed 
his  nigh  horse  on  pieces  of  chewing  tobacco, 
which  the  horse  took  from  his  fingers  or  bit 
from  the  plug.  We  were  told  later  that  this  is 
a  common  form  of  attention  for  the  drivers  to 
show  their  favorite  horses.  The  horse  swallowed 
the  tobacco.  About  half  a  mile  above  the  mill 
we  came  to  the  logging  camp.  There  was  a 
compact  log  stable,  a  log  smithy  manned  by  a 
sturdy  Frenchman  in  moccasins  who  spoke  very 
little  English,  and  a  living-house  made  of  slabs 
covered  with  tarred  paper  well  battened  down. 
The  house  stood  on  a  ribbon  of  ground  between 
the  road  and  the  steep  edge  of  the  torrent. 
Entering  through  a  low  shed  at  the  southern  or 
upper  end  of  the  shanty,  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  kitchen  and  dining-room.  The  room  con- 
tained two  cook-stoves  and  three  long,  narrow 
board  tables  with  benches  facing  them.  The 
tables  were  set  for  thirty-five  men,  allowing 
about  twenty  inches  of  space  for  each  man. 
We  were  welcomed  by  the  cook,  a  New  Eng- 
lander,  who  boasted  of  having  cooked  in  lumber 
camps  for  twenty  years.  He  prided  himself  on 
his  bread,  and  cut  a  loaf  to  show  its  quality. 
I  never  ate  better  bread  anywhere.  The  dishes 
on  the  table  were  simple,  —  tin  plates,  tin  cups, 
bottles  of  vinegar,  pitchers  of  maple  syrup,  tins 
holding  mountains  of  yellow  butter,  and  plates 


270  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

piled  high  with  "fried  holes,"  as  doughnuts  are 
graphically  termed.  Baked  beans  are  a  staple 
dish,  but  I  noticed  a  barrel  of  pork  at  the  door, 
and  lying  on  the  woodpile  a  big  bundle  of  cod- 
fish and  a  side  of  beef  certified  as  good  by  the 
Hon.  Jere.  Rusk. 

The  sleeping-room  of  the  camp  was  not  at- 
tractive. It  was  dark,  hot,  stuffy  in  odor,  and 
overcrowded.  Rude  bunks,  three  tiers  deep, 
lined  the  side  walls.  The  men  turn  into  these 
pens  with  their  clothes  on,  often  wet  with  rain 
or  snow.  Teamsters  are  roused  at  four  a.  M. ; 
the  rest  of  a  "crew"  somewhat  later.  In  win- 
ter, four  A.  M.  and  midnight  are  equally 
gloomy,  and  if  either  is  colder  it  is  the  morning 
hour.  The  cook  said  he  could  remember  but 
one  case  of  serious  illness  in  his  logging  camps. 
The  grip,  he  said,  seldom  kept  a  man  from 
work  more  than  one  or  two  days.  He  expressed 
great  fondness  for  birds,  and  spoke  of  the  daily 
visits  of  crossbills,  and  in  some  years  of  moose- 
birds.  "They  know  their  friends,  as  most 
dumb  beasts  do,"  he  declared,  and  went  on  to 
tell  of  a  terrible  storm  of  snow  and  sleet  which 
came  one  winter,  threatening  death  to  his  pets. 
"I  just  opened  my  camp  doors  and  called  and 
whistled  to  my  birds,  and  in  they  came,  dozens 
of  'em,  until  every  beam  and  perch  in  the  camp 
was  full  of  'em." 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  PASSACONAWAY.       271 

We  strolled  up  the  road  for  a  mile  or  more 
beyond  the  camp.  At  several  points  deposits 
of  logs  had  been  made  at  the  sides  of  the  road. 
Several  hundred  logs  lay  in  each  pile.  Near 
by,  hemlock  bark  was  stacked  in  long  rows, 
flanking  the  road.  We  crossed  the  torrent 
twice  on  spruce  bridges,  and  each  time  gained 
a  magnificent  view  of  Passaconaway.  It  was 
framed  in  black  clouds,  rushing  masses  of  vapor, 
and  dark  hillsides  still  laden  with  forests.  In 
the  foreground  was  the  foaming  stream,  boulder- 
choked,  bounding  towards  us.  From  this  side 
Passaconaway  shows  no  peak;  it  is  simply  a 
somewhat  worn  cube,  to  whose  precipitous  faces 
the  forests  cling  and  the  snows  freeze.  Its 
coloring  is  dark  in  any  light,  but  as  we  saw  it 
through  the  gathering  storm  of  that  late  Decem- 
ber day  a  more  forbidding  mountain  mass  coidd 
hardly  be  imagined.  It  was  so  near  us,  yet  so 
high  above  us ;  so  black,  so  cold,  so  lonely,  yet 
so  full  of  nature's  voices,  the  wailing  of  wind, 
the  cruel  rush  of  waters,  the  weird  creaking  of 
strained  trees.  The  stream,  with  its  greenish 
waters  hurling  themselves  over  the  boulders  and 
fretting  against  the  ice  sheets  projecting  from 
the  banks,  seemed  like  a  messenger  rushing 
headlong  from  the  mountain  to  warn  us  back 
from  impending  danger. 

nesting  for  a  while  under  the  shelter  of  a 


272    AT  THE  NORTH   OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

giant  hemlock,  we  called  the  birds.  Two  or 
three  chickadees  and  two  kinglets  came  to  us, 
but  they  were  subdued  by  the  storm  and  shy 
about  getting  wet.  Then  we  walked  briskly 
homeward,  the  rain  falling  in  earnest  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  way.  A  snowy  fog  rose  from 
all  parts  of  the  valley,  spreading  most  rapidly 
from  the  western  end.  The  flat  fields  of  snow 
vanished  first ;  then  the  damp  veil  crept  up  the 
dark  spruces  and  hid  their  tops;  and  finaUy 
mountain  peak  after  mountain  peak  surrendered 
to  the  rising  tide,  and  we  were  left  alone  in  the 
dense  fog  with  only  a  narrow  circle  of  steam- 
ing snow  around  us.  As  the  day  wore  on,  rain 
fell  faster  and  harder,  the  wind  rose,  it  grew 
colder,  and  the  blackness  of  the  winter  night 
would  have  been  terrible  but  for  the  peace  and 
comfort  within  doors.  On  such  a  night  the 
deer  in  their  "yards"  must  shiver  with  the 
chilling  dampness;  the  grouse  must  find  the 
snow  too  wet  to  sleep  in ;  and  foxes  and  rabbits, 
if  they  leave  their  dens  and  forms  at  all,  must 
regret  the  hunger  which  drives  them  out. 
Where  are  the  crossbills  and  siskins  ?  I  wish 
that  I  knew  and  could  find  them  out,  and  take 
a  friendly  look  at  their  ruffled  feathers,  their 
heads  tucked  under  their  wings,  and  perhaptj 
dozens  of  their  plump  little  bodies  snuggled 
together  in  a  dark,  dry  spruce. 


CHRISTMAS   AT   SABBA   DAY   FALLS. 

Christmas  Day  was  warm,  cloudy  at  best, 
densely  foggy  at  worst.  Soon  after  breakfast 
we  were  swinging  westward  up  the  valley  road, 
determined  to  find  Sabba  Day  Falls  or  perish 
in  the  attempt.  As  we  passed  the  crossbill 
feeding  -  ground  no  birds  were  in  sight,  but  a 
moment  later,  high  in  the  air,  we  heard  bird 
voices.  Looking  skyward,  we  saw  a  flock  of 
from  one  to  two  hundred  birds  whirling  roimd 
and  round,  like  ashes  drawn  upwards  over  a 
fire.  They  were  at  a  very  great  height,  and 
were  gradually  rising.  As  they  increased  their 
distance  they  disappeared  and  reappeared  sev- 
eral times;  then  they  vanished  wholly,  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  high  air.  I  think  they  were 
our  crossbills,  goldfinches,  and  siskins,  and  that 
they  were  soaring  in  search  of  fair  weather, 
perhaps  intending  to  migrate  to  some  other 
favorite  haunt.  Christmas  Day  is  not  a  time 
when  one  expects  much  color  in  a  White  Moun- 
tain landscape,  but  the  warm  air,  the  moisture, 
and  the  contrasts  against  snow  below  and  fog 
above  combined  to  produce  and  to  make  evident 


274  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

a  great  deal  of  exquisite  tinting  in  the  shrubs 
of  the  fields  and  the  forests  of  the  mountain 
spurs.  As  we  strode  up  the  line  of  yellow  mud 
which  made  the  road,  our  path  was  bordered  by 
shallow  snow  from  which  sprung  an  abundant 
growth  of  hardback  and  spiraea.  Taken  in 
masses,  their  stems  made  a  rich  maroon,  some- 
what dull  near  by,  but  warm  and  deep  when 
seen  across  an  acre  of  snow.  A  foot  or  two 
higher  than  these  small  shrubs  were  viburnums 
and  small  cherry  and  maple  trees  growing  along 
the  skirts  of  the  forest.  Their  general  tone  was 
also  dull  red,  though  somewhat  brighter  than 
the  spiraea.  The  next  band  of  color  was  ashy 
mottled  with  dark  green,  and  made  probably  by 
young  birches,  poplars,  beeches,  and  hemlocks. 
Then  came  a  belt  of  fog  mingled  with  snowy 
smoke  from  the  saw-mill,  and  above  that  a 
broad  band  of  ashes-of-rose  color,  formed  by 
the  upper  branches  and  twigs  of  the  common 
deciduous  trees.  Above  all  were  the  spruces, 
always  dark  except  when  the  piercing  eye  of 
the  sun  reveals  the  wonderful  golden  olive  which 
they  keep  for  him  alone. 

The  smoke  of  the  saw-mill  showed  that  the 
timber-eater  finds  no  time  for  remembering  the 
birthday  of  Jesus.  Teams  were  moving  as 
usual,  carrying  the  green  lumber  down  to  the 
railway.     The  men  employed  to  demolish  our 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SABBA  DAY  FALLS.       275 

forests  are  poorly  paid.  A  dollar  a  day  and 
board  is  what  the  French  Canadian  receives 
here.  Board  is  called  fifty  cents  a  day,  and  the 
married  workman  with  a  houseful  of  children 
lives  on  that  sum.  We  passed  the  home  of  a 
French  Canadian  known  in  the  valley  as  Bum- 
blebee. The  house  is  twelve  feet  long  by  ten 
feet  deep.  The  ridgepole  is  twelve  feet  from 
the  ground.  The  chimney  is  a  piece  of  stove- 
pipe. The  walls  are  made  of  boards,  battened, 
and  the  roof  is  unshingled.  Bumblebee  has 
five  children,  the  eldest  being  eight.  His  wife's 
mind  is  affected.  The  standing  timber,  the 
mill,  the  lumber  railway,  and  many  of  the  dwel- 
lings and  small  farms  belong  to  non-residents, 
whose  only  object  is  to  shear  the  mountains, 
squeeze  the  laborers,  and  keep  Congress  from 
putting  lumber  on  the  free  list. 

Not  far  beyond  Bumblebee's  one-room  house 
we  entered  the  primeval  forest.  We  were  fol- 
lowing the  trail  through  the  snow  made  by  us 
on  Sunday.  When  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in,  we 
were  surprised  to  find  a  bear  track  crossing  our 
path  at  right  angles.  The  huge  brute  had 
passed  that  way  on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday, 
judging  by  the  condition  of  the  snow.  On 
reaching  the  spot  where  we  had  aroused  a  barred 
owl  on  Simday,  we  hid  under  some  small  hem- 
locks, thereby  getting  a  thorough  sprinkling, 


276    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

and  I  hooted.  After  my  third  attempt,  I  saw 
a  great  bird  fly  through  the  woods  to  a  point 
only  a  hundred  yards  distant.  In  a  moment  or 
two  I  hooted  again,  and  then  made  the  fine 
squeaking  noise  which  a  mouse  makes.  The 
owl  came  nearer,  and  at  once  began  hooting. 
During  nearly  ten  minutes,  in  which  we  kept 
up  a  lively  exchange  of  hoots,  he  varied  his 
notes  in  several  ways,  sometimes  keeping  on, 
without  pausing,  from  one  series  of  hoots  to  an- 
other. I  never  heard  a  more  talkative  owl.  At 
last  he  flew  into  a  tree  so  near  us  that  I  could 
see  him  clearly  through  my  glass.  As  he  hooted, 
his  throat  swelled  and  pulsated.  He  searched 
the  trees  and  the  ground  with  his  keen  dark 
eyes.  When  at  last  he  saw  me,  I  seemed  to 
feel  the  force  of  his  glare.  Then  he  turned  his 
head  to  the  left  and  flew  away  with  long,  soft 
sweeps  of  his  wings.  At  a  distance  he  resumed 
his  hooting,  which  we  could  hear  for  some  time 
as  we  strolled  on  up  Sabba  Day  Brook.  What 
we  had  supposed  to  be  the  river,  on  Sunday, 
proved  to  be  Sabba  Day  Brook  itself.  The 
water  was  high,  most  of  the  ice  had  gone,  and 
all  the  small  brooks  poured  in  liberal  streams. 
In  one  pool  I  observed  a  small  trout.  At  last 
we  heard  the  thunder  of  the  falls,  and  looked 
forward  eagerly  to  see  them.  The  stream 
seemed  to  issue  from  the  solid  rock,  for  directly 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SABBA  DAT  FALLS.       277 

across  the  channel  rose  a  cliff  of  dark  granite 
crowned  with  black  spruces  and  one  or  two 
pines  whose  lofty  tops  were  pale  in  the  fog.  As 
we  drew  near,  the  majestic  beauty  of  the  place 
became  apparent.  At  the  foot  of  the  black  cliff 
was  a  deep  pool  full  of  strange  colors,  —  greens, 
olives,  and  white.  The  waters  in  it  were  rest- 
less, rising  and  settling  back,  but  forever  wash- 
ing the  sides  of  their  basin.  Four  gigantic 
icicles  hung  from  the  top  of  the  cliff,  extend- 
ing to  the  bottom.  One  of  them,  at  its  lower 
end,  touched  a  flat  sheK  of  rock,  and  so  became 
a  graceful  column  supporting  the  overhanging 
mosses  from  which  it  started.  Another  adhered 
to  the  rock  all  the  way,  and  was  a  crystalline 
pilaster.  The  other  two  were  free  throughout 
the  whole  of  their  thirty  feet  of  length,  and 
tapered  to  needle  points  threatening  the  pool 
below.  The  colors  in  the  pool  were  in  fact  bor- 
rowed from  the  mosses  and  ferns  which  grew  in 
masses  at  the  sides  and  upon  the  top  of  the  cliff. 
Living  in  perpetual  dampness,  these  exquisite 
plants  flourish  and  become  perfect  examples  of 
their  kind.  The  trailing  fern  fronds  were  as 
green  and  as  clean  in  outline  as  in  summer. 
They  sprang  from  beds  of  mosses  wonderful  in 
tints.  Some  were  golden  olive,  others  pale 
green,  and  still  others  blood  red.  Pressed 
against  the  upper  edge  of  the  black  cliff,  they 


278  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

were  like  a  garland  of  bright  flowers  on  the 
forehead  of  some  siillen  warrior. 

The  water  did  not  pour  into  this  pool  from 
the  cliff,  but  came  to  it  through  a  narrow  flume 
or  gap  in  the  solid  rock  which  had  been  con- 
cealed from  us  as  we  ascended  the  stream  by  the 
high  wooded  bank  opposite  the  cliff.  On  reach- 
ing the  edge  of  the  pool,  in  the  chill  shadow  of 
the  black  rock,  we  looked  up  the  flume  between 
narrow  walls  of  dark  gray  granite,  and  saw, 
thirty  feet  or  more  beyond,  another  pool,  into 
which  was  pouring  from  the  left  a  great  sheet 
of  water.  This  fall,  coming  from  a  point  fifty 
or  sixty  feet  above  us,  and  on  the  extreme  left 
of  the  flume,  had  its  side  towards  us ;  yet,  after 
its  green  waters  struck  the  upper  pool  and  strug- 
gled there  awhile,  they  came  through  the  flume 
as  their  only  outlet.  Clambering  up  the  right- 
hand  or  north  bank,  we  gained  a  point  where 
we  could  see  all  the  details  of  this  strange  cata- 
ract. 

Sabba  Day  Brook  above  the  falls  flows  nearly 
due  east.  It  strikes  a  rocky  hillside  and  is  de- 
flected to  the  left  by  a  sharp  curve,  so  that  it 
runs  due  north.  In  this  direction  it  has  worn 
a  sloping  passage  to  the  edge  of  the  falls.  Drop- 
ping fifty  feet  into  a  great  pot-hole,  it  turns 
abruptly  to  the  east  and  flows  out  through  the 
flume  into  the  green  pool,  past  the  black  ledge, 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SABBA  DAY  FALLS.        279 

and  then,  turning  slightly  towards  the  north, 
hurries  on  from  basin  to  rapid  on  its  way  to  the 
intervale.  Standing  on  a  shelf  of  snow-covered 
rock  overhanging  the  angle  in  the  fall,  we  first 
looked  up  at  the  water  leaving  its  level  above 
and  hurrying  towards  its  leap,  and  then  down 
at  the  boiling  pool  below  and  the  dashing  water 
in  the  flume.  These  falls  must  be  beautiful  in 
summer,  with  sunlight  playing  in  the  leaves, 
blue  sky  lending  color  to  the  water,  and  rainbow 
tints  gleaming  in  the  uprising  spray.  They 
were  also  beautiful  to-day,  —  Christmas  Day,  — 
when  the  loneliness  of  winter  was  brooding  over 
the  moimtains,  when  ice  and  snow  mingled  in 
the  surroundings  of  the  falls,  and  when  the  gay 
coloring  of  the  summer  forest  was  replaced  by 
the  sombre  tones  of  leafless  trees.  In  summer 
some  trace  of  man  might  have  jarred  upon  the 
perfect  solitude  of  the  spot  and  made  it  seem 
less  pure.  As  it  was,  standing  in  the  untrodden 
snow,  surrounded  by  the  fog,  the  wild  stream, 
the  ice-sheathed  rocks,  I  felt  as  one  might  if 
suffered  to  land  for  a  while  upon  some  far 
planet,  strange  to  man,  and  consecrated  to 
eternal  cold  and  solitude. 

We  turned  away  reluctantly  and  entered  the 
old  forest  which  stands  between  Sabba  Day 
Brook  and  Swift  River,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to 
the  north.    The  rumble  of  the  falls  grew  fainter 


280  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

and  fainter,  then  ceased.  Blue  jays  flew 
through  the  tree-tops ;  a  great  hawk  floated  by 
above  the  trees;  kinglets  and  a  brown  creeper 
lisped  to  us;  chickadees,  nuthatches,  downy 
woodpeckers,  and  a  great  flock  of  singing  sis- 
kins came  in  answer  to  our  whistles;  and  red 
squirrels  scolded  us  from  their  tree-strongholds. 
When  we  reached  Swift  River,  we  found  it 
broad,  still,  and  without  a  log  or  stones  to  cross 
upon.  Having  on  water-tight  hip-boots,  I 
waded  the  stream,  bearing  my  companion  upon 
my  shoulders.  Entering  a  swamp  on  the  far- 
ther shore,  we  observed  fresh  hedgehog  tracks. 
In  one  place  the  fat  beast  had  lain  down  in  the 
snow,  and  some  of  his  soft  quills  had  frozen  to 
his  bed  and  pulled  out  when  he  trundled  his 
body  along  again.  At  every  labored  stej)  he 
left  the  print  of  his  body  in  the  snow,  making  a 
track  as  conspicuous  as  a  man's.  In  a  tangle 
of  yew  branches  he  had  paused  and  nibbled 
bark  from  several  stems.  After  following  his 
trail  a  hundred  yards  or  more,  we  lost  it  in  a 
spruce  thicket  where  the  snow  had  melted. 

At  the  extreme  western  end  of  Swift  River 
intervale  stands  a  hill  seven  or  eight  hundred 
feet  high,  having  long  sloping  lines  and  a 
pointed  top.  It  is  called  Sugarloaf .  Its  sides 
are  covered  with  as  fine  a  growth  of  ancient 
trees  as  it  is  often  one's  fortune  to  find  in  New 


CHRISTMAS   AT  SABBA  DAY  FALLS.       281 

England.  As  this  growth  includes  few  spruces, 
hemlocks,  or  pines,  it  has  escaped  the  timber 
fiends.  There  are  among  its  trees  giant  yellow 
birches,  saffron-colored  in  the  mist;  beeches  a 
century  old,  with  trunks  moulded  into  shapes 
suggestive  of  human  limbs  strong  in  muscles, 
rock  maples  eighty  or  ninety  feet  high  and 
hemlocks  with  coarse  bark  unbroken  by  limbs 
until,  a  hundred  feet  from  the  hillside,  a  mat 
of  their  interwoven  branches  finds  the  sunlight. 
The  cultivated  fields  and  pasture  lands  of  the 
intervale  are  singularly  free  from  rocks.  Here 
and  there  a  great  boulder  can  be  found,  but  it 
is  conspicuous  in  its  loneliness.  On  this  hill- 
side, however,  boulders  of  all  shapes  and  sizes 
are  strewn.  Most  of  them  are  about  the  size 
of  a  load  of  hay.  They  are  covered  with  showy 
lichens  and  the  greenest  of  green  mosses.  Se- 
lecting one  at  the  very  summit  of  the  hill,  we 
searched  under  its  overhanging  sides  for  dry 
leaves  and  twigs.  Then  we  broke  an  old  stump 
into  pieces  and  tore  the  curling  bark  from  a 
prostrate  birch.  All  this  material  was  more  or 
less  damp,  but  by  patience  we  secured  a  little 
bed  of  coals  which  soon  dried  the  rest  of  our 
fuel,  so  that  before  long  a  bright  blaze  and  a 
warm  glow  gladdened  our  eyes  and  comforted 
our  chilled  bodies.  Then  came  our  cheery 
Christmas  dinner  in  the  primeval  forest,  upon 


282    AT  TEE  NORTH   OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

a  snow-covered  hillside,  under  the  projecting 
face  of  a  great  rock,  beneath  which  we  sat, 
with  a  ruddy  fire  crackling  in  front  of  us. 
Never  Christmas  dinner  went  straighter  to  the 
right  spot. 

While  we  were  resting  and  enjoying  our  fire, 
a  flock  of  sweet-voiced  pine  grosbeaks  came  to 
neighboring  tree-tops,  a  white-bellied  nuthatch 
hung  head  downwards  from  a  beech-trunk,  and 
two  downy  woodpeckers  called  imeasily  to  each 
other.  At  last  we  extinguished  our  fire  and  de- 
scended the  hill.  Five  grouse  flew  noisily  from 
the  hillside.  Through  the  trees  we  could  see 
the  white  ice  on  Church's  Pond,  and  towards  it 
we  made  our  way.  The  pond  is  the  last  rem- 
nant of  the  great  lake  which  in  distant  ages 
filled  the  whole  of  this  intervale.  Even  now  an 
area  twenty  times  as  large  as  the  lake  adjoins 
its  water,  and  is  almost  level  with  it,  being 
covered  with  sphagnum,  laurel,  pitcher-plant, 
and  other  bog  growth,  and  offering  very  uncer- 
tain footing.  Reaching  the  pond,  we  circled 
around  it  on  the  ice,  cautiously  keeping  close  to 
the  shore,  although  a  yoke  of  oxen  could  prob- 
ably have  blundered  across  without  danger. 
While  we  were  on  the  lake  the  sunset  hour 
passed,  and  a  dense  fog  crept  down  upon  the 
serrated  spruce  forest  which  borders  the  water. 
Three  pine  grosbeaks  flew  into  the  advancing 


CHRISTMAS   AT   SABBA   DAY  FALLS.        283 

mists,  talking  in  gentle  music  to  one  another. 
One  was  left  on  a  dead  tree  in  the  bog,  and 
uttered  a  plaintive  cry  again  and  again.  Leav- 
ing the  ice,  we  struck  across  the  frozen  bog, 
now  and  then  breaking  through  the  soft  places, 
but  generally  finding  ice  or  roots  to  sustain  our 
weary  feet.  As  we  progressed,  we  gathered  an 
armful  of  club-mosses  and  a  bunch  of  checker- 
berry  plants  bearing  their  gay  fruit.  The  fog 
closed  in  around  us,  and  the  air  became  chilly. 
Not  a  mountain  could  we  see.  It  was  a  relief  to 
strike  firm  soil,  though  it  was  only  a  few  inches 
higher  than  the  bog.  Presently  we  came  to  the 
river,  and  for  a  second  time  I  shouldered  my 
friend  and  took  him  over  dry  shod.  After  do- 
ing the  same,  a  few  moments  later,  at  Sabba 
Day  Brook,  we  gained  the  end  of  the  intervale 
road  near  Bumblebee's  hut.  It  was  now  grow- 
ing dark,  yet  a  mile  of  yellow  mud  still  lay  be- 
fore us.  Colors  had  faded;  the  graceful  out- 
lines of  the  forest  were  dimmed;  nothing  but 
the  martial  spruces  remained  with  us,  drawn  up 
in  stiff  lines  beside  the  road. 

When  we  reached  home,  the  Christmas  greens 
and  checkerberries  were  made  by  our  inexperi- 
enced fingers  into  a  cross,  a  wreath,  and  a  long 
strip  for  festooning.  These  we  presented  to 
the  three-year-old  Lily  of  the  intervale,  whose 
ideas  of  Christmas  had  been  obscured  by  the 


284  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

fact  that  no  one  had  given  her  any  presents. 
These  offerings  made  matters  better  with  her, 
and  I  fancied  that  she  pommeled  her  four  kit- 
tens less  mercilessly  than  usual,  as  she  gazed  at 
the  Christmas  greens,  and  said  many  times  to 
her  grandmother,  "Man  dave  dose  to  Diddy, 
he  did." 


DOWN   THE   TORRENT'S   PATHWAY. 

Saturday,  December  26,  our  last  day  in  the 
intervale,  was  the  least  pleasant  of  our  visit. 
At  eight  A.  M.  fog  covered  the  mountains,  the 
forests,  and  everything,  in  fact,  save  a  few  acres 
of  deep  straw-colored  field  on  which  only  a  few 
soiled  patches  of  snow  remained.  The  engine 
came  in  promptly,  but  found  no  cars  loaded, 
and  went  back  to  Bartlett  without  freight. 
About  nine  o'clock  the  millmen  came  home  and 
said  there  were  no  logs  at  the  saw-mill,  the 
Frenchmen  having  been  drunk  on  Christmas. 
There  were  rumors  of  fights  among  the  revel- 
ers. About  ten  o'clock,  having  finished  our 
packing,  we  took  a  short  stroll  in  the  rain. 
There  were  kinglets  in  the  woods  by  the  road- 
side, but  no  crossbills  could  be  found  at  their 
favorite  feeding-ground.  I  think  they  migrated 
Christmas  morning. 

We  crossed  Swift  River  on  the  railway  bridge 
and  entered  the  tract  of  densely  wooded  swamp 
which  occupies  much  of  the  northern  side  of  the 
intervale.  It  was  at  this  point  that  my  friend 
saw  the  deer  on  Tuesday.     As  we  strolled  along 


286    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

the  track,  the  voices  of  birds  could  be  heard  on 
our  left.  Petidant,  and  even  angry  cries  came 
from  the  damp  shades.  We  stopped  and  lis- 
tened, and  I  said,  "It  soimds  to  me  as  though 
an  owl  were  being  worried  in  there."  Then  I 
entered  the  spruces,  going  very  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously. Chickadees,  nuthatches,  and  kinglets 
were  chattering  and  scolding.  I  pressed  in, 
sometimes  working  my  way  on  hands  and  knees 
over  the  snow  which  still  remained  under  the 
cover  of  the  dense  woods.  By  and  by  I  could 
see  some  of  the  birds.  They  were  evidently 
greatly  excited,  and  they  all  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing at  the  same  thing,  —  a  something  around 
which  they  formed  a  circle.  I  crept  on.  Fully 
twenty  small  birds  were  in  sight.  Three  at 
least  were  the  weak-voiced,  sputtering  Hudson 
Bay  titmice.  Their  clamor  was  continuous. 
When  they  saw  me,  they  moved  about  and 
scolded  at  me  somewhat.  I  closely  scrutinized 
the  tree  which  seemed  to  be  the  focus  of  their 
wrath.  A  dark  brown  object  projected  from 
the  shelter  of  the  trunk.  It  twitched.  I  wrig- 
gled on  a  foot  or  two  more,  and  as  I  did  so  a 
strange  little  face  peered  around  the  tree-trunk, 
and  wild,  yellow  eyes  glared  at  me  from  a  white 
face  framed  in  a  chocolate  brown  hood.  I 
fairly  held  my  breath  and  half  closed  my  eyes 
while  the  tiny  owl  stared  at  me.     Slowly  he 


DOWN  THE   TORRENT'S  PATHWAY.        287 

looked  away,  and  flew  a  few  feet  to  another 
spruce  branch.  He  was  now  facing  me,  and  he 
watched  me  narrowly.  Most  of  his  accusers 
had  gone,  and  soon  all  departed,  the  rain  falling 
more  briskly,  and  a  cold  easterly  wind  shaking 
moisture  from  the  trees.  The  little  owl  shook 
himself  and  seemed  melancholy.  He  was  get- 
ting wet,  and  he  did  not  like  my  looks  at  all. 
He  flew  again,  and  a  second  time  I  kept  him 
within  sight.  His  eyes  were  encircled  by  discs 
of  white  mingling  with  snowy  eyebrows,  so  that 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  monkey-like  countenance 
was  white.  The  back  and  top  of  his  head  were 
brown,  and  the  same  dark  color  closed  in  round 
his  neck  and  throat,  as  a  baby's  cap  closes 
round  its  face.  The  owl's  breast  was  light,  and 
marked  by  several  broad  perpendicular  stripes 
of  reddish  brown.  His  back  was  dark,  and  so 
were  his  wings,  save  for  some  white  spots. 
From  the  crown  of  his  downy  head  to  the  soles 
of  his  wicked  little  clawed  feet,  this  tiny  Aca- 
dian measured  not  more  than  seven  or  eight 
inches. 

My  constant  watching  made  the  little  fellow 
very  uneasy.  He  flew  nine  times  from  branch 
to  branch  or  tree  to  tree,  yet  I  managed  to  fol- 
low him  closely.  From  one  of  his  perches  he 
could  not  see  my  face  well,  and  it  was  amusing 
to  see  him  stretch  himself  to  his  full  height  and 


288    AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

peep  over  the  obscuring  branch.  On  another 
perch  he  was  perfectly  in  view.  As  he  watched 
me  he  tipped  his  head  first  on  one  side,  then  on 
the  other.  Then  he  would  poke  it  forward  or 
swing  it  round  on  his  supple  little  neck,  and 
strive  to  get  my  measure  if  not  my  purposes.  I 
squeaked  like  a  mouse,  and  he  became  agitated, 
looking  keenly  at  the  snow  near  me.  Suddenly, 
without  warning,  he  flew  into  a  long,  narrow 
opening  in  the  spruces  and  disappeared  in  its 
windings.  Our  search  for  him  was  in  vain,  and 
we  hurried  home  to  dry  ourselves  once  again 
before  taking  our  long  drive  to  Conway. 

One  o'clock  saw  us  beneath  a  huge  cotton 
umbrella,  packed  under  a  fur  robe,  on  the  back 
seat  of  a  light  two -horse  wagon.  The  east  wind 
beat  fiercely  in  our  faces,  and  the  horses  shook 
their  heads  and  danced  as  the  rain  stung  them. 
The  cloud  masses  rolled  through  the  valley,  ed- 
dying between  the  mountains  much  as  the  Swift 
River  whirls  around  its  boulders.  Sometimes 
the  mists  opened  and  a  dark  face  of  forest  or 
damp  rock  showed  for  a  moment.  With  a 
crack  of  the  whip  and  a  good -by  to  our  hostess 
we  dashed  away.  Through  the  window  I  caught 
a  last  glimpse  of  little  Diddy,  curled  up  on  a 
big  feather-bed,  taking  her  midday  nap.  Then 
flying  mud,  rain,  horses,  and  soaking  forests 
alone  met  the  eye,  and  we  hurried  eastward. 


DOWN  THE  TORRENT'S  PATHWAY.       289 

The  level  intervale  was  soon  left  behind,  and 
the  road  began  the  descent  towards  the  Saco. 
Swift  River  roared  below  us ;  brooks  came  tum- 
bling down  their  rough  channels,  poured  under 
or  across  the  road,  and  merged  their  currents 
in  the  river's.  The  trees  swayed  and  shook 
rain  from  their  shoulders.  Now  in  front  of 
us,  now  to  our  left,  the  madly  descending  river 
and  its  presiding  mountain  walls  were  always 
in  sight.  The  bare  faces  of  the  ledges,  the  rent 
hillsides  and  sloping  sand-banks,  the  boulders 
heaped  in  countless  numbers  in  the  river  bed, 
all  told  of  forgotten  days  like  this  day  of  storm- 
fury,  when  the  waters  of  the  pent-up  lake  in 
the  valley  we  had  left  rebelled  against  these 
hillsides  and  ledges,  and  tore  them  in  frag- 
ments, sweeping  over  them  towards  the  liberty 
of  water,  —  the  sea. 

The  northern  spurs  of  Chocorua  came  towards 
us  through  the  mist  as  though  to  crush  us ;  but 
the  horses  dashed  on,  leaving  their  threatening 
heights  behind.  Then  Bear  Mountain's  black 
spruces  and  glistening  cliffs  barred  our  way; 
but  we  followed  the  river's  lead  and  came  out 
into  the  pastures  and  fields  next  to  Moat.  Af- 
ter nearly  three  hours  of  soaking,  our  steaming 
horses  drew  up  at  Conway  station,  and  we  were 
left  to  dry  and  await  the  train.  Letters  ac- 
cumulated during  the  week  made  the  time  pass 


290  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BEARCAMP  WATER. 

quickly  until  the  train  came  and  we  were  fairly 
homeward  bound.  The  storm  hid  the  moun- 
tains and  half  obscured  Six  Mile  Pond  and  its 
ragged  pitch-pine  shores.  Rain  —  cold,  sting- 
ing, winter  rain  —  beat  upon  the  Bearcamp, 
Salmon  Falls,  the  Piscataqua,  and  the  Merri- 
mac.  The  night  inside  of  Salem  tunnel  was  no 
darker  than  the  night  on  Saugus  marshes,  and 
even  the  myriad  lights  of  Boston  reflected  in 
the  Mystic  only  made  the  winter  gloom  more 
visible.  As  I  struggled  through  the  Saturday- 
night  crowd  on  the  narrow  streets  near  the  sta- 
tions, and  marked  the  faces  of  waif  and  thief, 
drunkard,  jester,  sordid  vender  of  evil  wares, 
weary  workman  or  thrice  weary  workwoman, 
my  heart  was  heavier  than  it  had  been  in  the 
wild  valley  back  of  Passaconaway.  Even  Bum- 
blebee, with  his  sick  wife  and  five  children, 
crowded  into  one  room  in  that  hut  by  Sabba 
Day  Brook,  had  something  of  life  of  which  this 
foul  city  humanity  knows  nothing.  Certainly 
Bumblebee's  boys  lack  the  chance  to  absorb  the 
virus  of  the  slums  which  the  wretched  waifs  of 
the  streets  have.  As  I  waited  for  my  Cam- 
bridge car,  the  stream  of  humanity  surged  and 
eddied  round  me  and  the  foul  fog  hung  over 
us.  Swift  River,  plunging  on  resistlessly  to- 
wards the  sea,  is  seeking  rest,  far  away ;  but  this 
stream  of  humanity,  —  whiat  is  it  seeking?    To 


MOAT  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SWIFT  RIVER 


DOWN  TEE  TORRENT'S  PATHWAY.        291 

me  it  seemed  to  be  seeking  anything  but  the 
pest,  everything  but  the  peace,  to  which  its  cur- 
rent ought  to  tend. 

Fast  and  furious  as  is  the  torrent  of  Swift 
River,  its  beginning  is  in  the  heavens,  and  as 
long  as  the  noble  forests  cloak  the  hills  and 
guard  the  springs,  so  long  will  its  current  be 
sustained  by  fresh  supplies  of  moisture  drawn 
from  the  distant  sea.  This  human  current, 
coursing  into  and  through  the  city,  draws  a 
part  of  its  strength  from  the  hills.  All  our 
New  England  uplands  are  draining  their  youth 
and  strength  into  the  cities,  but  the  ocean  which 
these  life-streams  reach  gives  back  no  gentle, 
purified  life  to  fill  the  mountain  farms.  It 
takes  all,  pollutes  much,  but  yields  nothing  in 
return. 

A  deep-toned  bell  in  the  Old  North  Church 
spoke  to  the  foggy  night.  Answering  voices 
came  from  a  dozen  belfries.  They  seemed  to 
call  in  review  the  long  year  now  drawing  to  its 
close.  Years  are  as  days  to  them  in  their  high 
places  far  above  the  human  stream,  but  years 
are  very  real  to  us  who  can  count  so  few  of 
them  before  we  reach  that  wide  Ocean  towards 
which  our  stream  flows.  The  flower  has  a  day 
for  its  year,  the  gnat  an  hour.  What  a  mighty 
harvest  Death  has  reaped  since  this  year  began ; 
yet  no  one  expects  any  shrinkage  in  the  current 


292  AT  THE  NORTH  OF  BE  ARC  AMP  WATER. 

of  life  in  the  next  year.  The  world's  rhythm 
will  be  just  as  strong,  just  as  even,  just  as  full 
of  joy  to  those  who  will  accept  joy  as  the  birds 
accept  it.  What,  then,  is  death  if  it  cannot 
diminish  the  sum  total  of  creation's  forces?  Is 
it  more  than  a  transfer  of  energy  from  one  point 
to  another?  When  the  flower  dies  we  can  see 
and  measure  the  transfer;  when  a  man  dies  we 
who  live  cannot  see  it  all,  but  we  can  measure 
the  poor  shell  which  is  left  to  us  and  feel  sure, 
terribly  sure  at  first,  joyously  sure  in  time,  that 
all  which  was  there  in  life  is  not  still  there; 
that  something  has  been  transferred  where  we 
can  neither  see  nor  measure  it. 

The  year  begins  in  snow  and  ends  in  snow. 
When  it  begins,  the  pendulum  of  life  is  far  up 
at  the  left  of  its  arc,  all  its  force  is  gathered 
in  position,  none  is  displayed  in  motion.  But 
suddenly  the  pendulum  begins  to  move;  it  is 
falling;  it  moves  faster  and  faster  towards  the 
right.  Then  it  is  that  snows  melt,  buds  swell, 
birds  come  northward  singing,  dormant  crea- 
tures leave  their  caves,  and  all  Nature  displays 
her  latent  energy  in  motion.  Just  when  the 
motion  of  the  pendulum  is  fastest  it  passes  that 
middle  and  lowest  point  in  its  arc  and  begins  to 
turn  its  momentum  into  the  force  of  position. 
Up  it  goes,  and  as  it  ascends  to  the  far  right, 
it  goes  more  and  more  slowly  until   finally  it 


DOWN  THE   TORMENT'S  PATHWAY.       293 

stops.  This  upward  swing  in  Nature  begins 
when  the  first  flowers  fade,  the  first  nestlings 
are  hatched,  and  the  first  leaves  fall.  In  sum- 
mer we  do  not  always  notice  the  lessening  speed 
of  Nature's  motions;  not  imtil  autumn  comes 
do  we  realize  that  the  days  are  shorter,  the  sun's 
rays  less  warm,  the  birds  fewer,  and  vegetation 
almost  without  power  of  growth.  In  December 
the  pendulum  stops  and  all  that  Nature  has  of 
energy  is  latent,  awaiting  the  turn  in  the 
world's  rhythm. 

The  baby,  gurgling  and  cooing  in  its  basket, 
is  full  of  latent  forces.  As  life  goes  on,  these 
powers  are  exercised  more  and  more  to  the  flood, 
less  and  less  as  the  tide  ebbs.  Yet  who  is  there 
who  dares  to  say  that  when  old  age  is  reached 
there  is  not  as  much  laid  by  in  that  soul 
wrapped  in  its  weary  body  as  there  was  in  the 
infant  full  of  latent  power?  We  know  not 
where  the  infant's  forces  came  from,  nor  where 
the  dying  man's  energy  goes  to,  but  if  Nature 
teaches  us  anything,  it  teaches  us  that  forces 
such  as  these  are  eternal  in  the  same  sense  that 
matter  is  eternal  and  space  endless. 


INDEX. 


Albaay,  44,  212,  217,  230. 

Alder,  196,  212. 

Amelauchier,  195. 

American  holly,  195. 

Aut,  182. 

Apple-tree,  195. 

Arenaria  groenlandlca,  26. 

Arrowheul,  47. 

Ash,  4. 

Aster,  39,  47, 134, 153, 176,  269,  266. 

Balsam  fir,  22, 148. 

Barberry,  196. 

Bat,  76,  98,  132. 

Bear,  35,  82-95,  148,  158,  233,  275. 

Bearcamp  VaUey,  23,  43,  168,  196, 

214. 
Bearcamp  Water,  23,  43,  290. 
Bee,  86, 135, 139,  181,  185. 
Beech,  15,  49,  50,  179, 187,  188,  196, 

208,  246,  274,  281. 
Birch,  7, 195,  207,  246,  274 ;   canoe, 

4, 39, 50, 85 ;  nay,  38, 139 ;  yeUow, 

4,  49,  281. 
Birch  Intervale,  71,  267. 
Bittern,  30,  36. 
Blackberry,  12,  48, 179, 191. 
Blueberry,  40,  89,  93, 191, 195. 
Bluebird,  125,  126, 165, 170. 
Bobolink,  126. 
Boston,  228,  290. 
Bristletails,  181. 
Brown  creeper,  165,  262,  280. 
Brunella,  12,  47, 2G6. 
Buttercups,  181,  259. 

Caddis-womi,  59. 
Campton,  23,  43. 
Catbird,  98,  114,  116,  130. 
Cedar-bird,  103,  107,  116,  120,  130, 

143. 
Champney  Falls  brook,  154. 
Checkerberry,  12,  39,  204,  269,  283. 
Chewink,  226. 


Chickadee,  blackcap,  7, 11, 107,  US, 

119,  130,  143,  165,  184,  202,  241, 

253,  262,   272,  286;  Hudson  Bay, 

218,  254,  258,  286. 
Chocorua  Lake,  10,  71,  89,  97,  171, 

182,  217. 
Chocorua  River,  226. 
Choke-cherry,  179. 
Church's  Pond,  243,  282. 
Clematis,  196. 
CUntonia,  48. 
Clover,  red,  12, 181 ;  white,  12, 181, 

259;  yeUow,  12. 
Club-mosses,  204,  283. 
Conway,  43,  44,  71,  230,  232,  289. 
Cornel,  12,  39,  40,  48. 
Crickets,  181. 
Crossbill,  red,  239,  244,  248,  257, 

264;  white,  250. 
Crow,  3,  11,  13,  99,  102,  103,  106, 

143, 164, 173. 

Daisy,  12. 
Dalibarda,  47. 
Deer,  25,  85,  256,  258. 
Diervilla,  24. 
Dogbane,  9, 12. 
Downes  brook,  267,  268. 
Dragonfly,  13, 114. 182. 
Duck,  black,  36, 128,  160, 165 ;  shel- 
drake, 128, 212  ;  wood,  36, 128, 225w 

Eagle,  127. 

Evening  primrose,  12. 

Ferns,  2,  3, 19,  22,  39,  86,  134,  143, 

179,  259,  277. 
Fireweed,  49,  196. 
Flax,  89,  126. 
Fleabane,  12. 
Fly,  74,  181,  207. 
Fox,  30,  133,  205,  243,  258. 
Frog,  36,  98,  106, 114 ;  wood,  14, 18& 
Fungi,  48,  69. 


296 


INDEX. 


6^686    128 

Goldenrod,   11,  26,   39,  40,  45,  47, 

134,  153,  176,  181,  196,  203,  204, 

266. 
Goldfinch,   102,  107,  124,  125,  143, 

165,  239,  244,  264. 
Grasshopper,  204. 
Grouse,  14,  63,  121,  186,  227,  255, 

256,  282  ;  Canada,  155. 
Gull,  herring,  129. 

Hardhack,  47,  274. 

Hare,  1,  133,  205,  252,  264,  258. 

Harvest-fly,  119. 

Hawk,  205,  250,  258,  280 ;  Cooper's, 

14,  37,  110,  127 ;   marsh,  37  ;   red- 

sbouldered,  37,100;  sharp-shiimed, 

110,  127,  160. 
Hawkiveed,  181. 
Hemlock,  49,  149,  188,  272,  274, 
Heron,   blue,  30,  36,  42,    108-110, 

117, 127  ;  night,  36, 128. 
Honeysuckle,  88. 
Hornet,  87,  93. 
Hompout,  37,  41. 
Houstonia,  12,  40,  203. 
Huckleberry,  179. 
Humming-bird,  38, 107, 116, 139. 
Hyla,  119. 

Immortelles,  47, 176. 
Indian  pipe,  13,  48,  266. 

Jay,  blue,  6,  101, 110,  130,  131,  143, 
105,  241,  245,  258,  280;  Canada, 
155,  270. 

Junco,  25,  69,  80,  124,  164, 173,  202, 
248. 

Kingbird,  101, 105,  111,  114, 116. 
Kingfisher,  36,  102. 
Kinplet,  120, 143,  165,  202,  248,  250, 
253,  262,  272,  280,  285. 

Lambkill,  24,  192,  282. 
Larch,  195. 

Least  flycatcher,  103,  107. 
Lichen,  3,4,7,  23,  60,  259. 
Linnaea,  8,  16.  21,  39. 
Locust,  181,  185,  204. 
Locust-tree,  126. 
Loon,  128. 

Madison,  198. 

Maple,  48,  50,  64,  88,  134,  142,  163, 

ICO,  203,  213,  259,  274. 
Msyflower,  21,  39,  259. 
Mink,  32,  258. 
Mole,  139,  141,  145. 


Morning-glory,  186. 

Mosquito,  6. 

Moss,  3,  19,  39,  60,  248,  259,  277. 

Mountain,  Anderson,  57,  66,  67 ; 
Bald,  26,  205  ;  Bear,  57,  230,  234, 
235,  236,  243-251,  263,  289  ;  Black 
(Sandwich  Dome),  23,  63,  89, 178  ; 
Bond,  57;  Carrigain,  57, 66, 67, 236, 
249,  262 ;  Chocorua,  7,  8,  11,  23, 
57,  62-81,  82,  90,  142,  154,  157, 
178,  201,  204-208,  216,  230,  236, 
249,  289 ;  Franconia,  57,  66,  249 ; 
Green's  CUffs,  236, 202 ;  Kancama- 
gus,  236,  243,  249,  262 ;  Lowell, 
57,  66,  67,  236;  Moat,  230,  232, 
233,  249,  289  ;  Nancy,  57,  66,  67  j 
Osceola,  236;  Ossipee,  23,  193, 
228;  Pequawket,  71,  232,  249; 
Passaconaway,  23,  44,  146,  154, 
178,  201,  236,  249,  257,  261,  271 ; 
Paugus,  23,  43,  62,  57,  144,  146- 
156,  178,  201,  236,  257, 261 ;  Presi- 
dential, 66;  Sandwich,  23,  146, 
169,  230  ;  Tremont,  236,  262  ; 
Tripyramid,  66,  236,  243,  249; 
Washington  193,  232, 249 ;  White- 
face,  23,  63,  178,  201 ;  Whittier, 
178 ;  WiUey,  57. 

Mountain  ash,  44,  88,  89, 134,  153. 

Mouse,  74,  132-145,  186,  205,  258. 

Mullein,  47. 

Muskrat,  31. 

Night-hawk,  37,  38,  77,  100,  123. 
Nuthatch,  red-bellied,  119,  130, 143, 

165,  241,  246,  248,  250,  280,  286 ; 

white-beUied,  120,  165,  246,  253, 

282. 

Oak,  29,  88, 132,  179,  191,  196,  204, 

208,225. 
Oliverian  brook,  257-261. 
Olive-sided  flycatcher,  53, 106. 
Orchis,  3,  21. 
Osprey,  127, 130,  202. 
Ossipee  Lake,  71,  190,  214. 
Owl,  Acadian,  287  ;  barred,  36,  100, 

116, 132,  183,  241,  260,  276. 
Oxalis,  21. 

Partridge-berry,  16,  259. 
Paugus  Falls,  151,  155. 
Paugus  River,  147,  219,  223. 
Pemigewasset  Valley,  43,  178. 
Pewee,  bridge,  107, 130, 160;  wood, 7. 
Pickerel,  98,  114. 
Pickerel- weed,  116. 
Pine,  pitch,  226 ;  white,  39,  97, 136^ 
171, 180,  183. 


INDEX. 


297 


Pine  (Inch,  239,  246,  248,  250,  253, 

264,280. 
Pine  grosbeak,  208,  250,  282. 
Pine  sap,  14. 
Pipsissewa,  13,  39,  204. 
Pitcher  pUnt,  282. 
Poplar,  7,  192,  207,  208,  274. 
Porcupine,  34,  35,  56,  65,  133,  280. 
PotentiUa,  12,  26. 
Purple  finch,  124,  253. 
Pyrol»,  13. 

Raccoon,  33,  258. 

Rattlesnake  plantain,  48. 

Robin,  107,  120,  130,  143,  165,  171, 

173,  202. 
Rose,  wild,  2. 
Rusty  grackle,  126. 

8abba  Day  Falls,  143,  273-284. 

Saco  River,  43,  232. 

8t.  John's-wort,  11,  47. 

Sandpiper,  solitary,  98,  105,  115, 
116 ;  spotted,  98. 

Sandwich,  23,  43. 

Shrew,  141. 

Six  Mile  Pond,  198,  290. 

Skunk,  35,  133,  199. 

Skunk  cabbage,  3. 

Suowberry,  40. 

Buow-bunting,  234,  241,  266. 

Solomon's  seal,  88. 

Sparrow,  chipping,  124 ;  field,  11, 
124 ;  song,  99,  104,  124, 125 ;  tree, 
131,  173,  202,  244;  vesper,  124, 
125 ;  white-crowned,  164 ;  white- 
throated,  25,  68,  80,  124,  125,  164, 
173. 

Bpliagnura,  22,  92,  153,  259,  282. 

Spider,  181. 

Bpirsea,  12,  274. 

Spiranthes,  47. 

Spruce,   26,  50,  89,    149,    154,  204, 

234,  236,  244,  252,  261,  274. 
Bquaui  Lake,  23. 

Squirrel,  flying,  33;  gray,  33,  132, 
140,  188,  208,  209 ;  red,  34,  53, 
102,  208,  238,  245,  251,  252,  255 ; 
striped,  6,  33,  34,  145,  172,  251. 

Sumac,  47,  134,  153. 

Swallow,  bank,  123 ;  barn,  104,  123 ; 
eaves,  123 ;  martin,  123 ;  white- 
breasted,  124. 

Sweet  fern,  179. 

Sweet  pea,  185,  203. 

Swift,  107. 

Swift  River,  43,  142,  154.  230,  233, 

235,  244,  256,  280,  285,  288,  289. 


Swift  River  Intervale,  44,  45,  68,  67, 

71,  141. 

Tadpole,  12,  22,  32,  36,  41. 

Tamworth,  44,  219. 

Tanager,  38,  130. 

Tern,  black,  36, 129  ;  Wilaon'a,  129. 

Thiiitle,  47. 

Thrush,  hermit,  1,11,  23,  28,80,97, 
lie,  165;  Swainsou's,  24,  80,  99, 
119 ;  veery,  1,  2,  3,  11,  98,  107. 

Toad,  15,  63. 

Tree-frog,  7, 119. 

Trout,  18,  40,  203,  215,  276. 

Turtle,  13,  41. 

University  Hall,  167. 

Veratrum,  3. 

Vervain,  47. 

Viburnum,  hobble-buah,  44,  49,  134, 
191,  259,  274. 

Violet,  192. 

Vireo,  red-eyed,  1,  14,  23,  63,  104, 
112,  119,  130,  143;  Philadelphia, 
39 ;  solitary,  23,  120,  130,  165. 

West  Ossipee,  170. 

Warbler,  black  and  white  creeping, 
120;  Blackbumian,  120;  black- 
poU,  26 ;  black-throated  blue,  23, 
120;  black-throated  green,  120; 
Canadian  fly-catching,  120 ;  chest- 
nut-sided, 99,  112,  120 ;  magnolia, 
25,  120  ;  Maryland  yellow-throat, 
1,  99,  101,  102,  107,  143;  myrtle, 
120, 165 ;  oven-bird,  14,  23 ;  parula, 
7;  redstart,  112,  120;  Wilson'* 
blackcap,  106, 107, 113,  120. 

Whippoorwill,  1,  28,  37,  98, 130, 132. 

White  Pond,  224. 

Whitton  Pond,  211,  215,  217. 

Wild  cherry,  44,  93,  259. 

Willow,  192. 

Winnepesaukee  Lake,  23,  89. 

Winter  vrren,  2,  122. 

Witch-haiel,  203. 

Woodbine,  134. 

Woodchuck,  33,  172. 

Woodpecker,  downy,  280,  282 ;  flick- 
er, 101,  104,  106,  110,  116,  120, 
130,  143 :  pileated,  218 :  aapsuck- 
ing,  14,  38,  116,  130,  139;  thiM' 
toed,  156,  247. 

Yarrow,  12,  181. 
YpUow-beliied  flycatchar,  112. 
Yew,  60,  280. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


DATE  DUE 

CAYLOHO 

miNTCO  IN  U.S.A. 

Bio-A 

80  He 

At    th 

wate 

g   F41  .6    S1362     19i  7 
^-    Prank  .    ,1  856-18.94. 

UUMMHllillHTwiHl 
lllllllii'illlllll 
A     000  492  377 

1 

7 

